Reading Original Texts: WALTER BAGEHOT's 'Biographical Studies' — LORD BROUGHAM

LORD BROUGHAM (1857)

Lord [Henry] Brougham (1857)

(The translator has created and inserted the table of contents subheadings, introduction, and commentary.)

I Translator's Introduction

II Parallel Translation

1. Lord Brougham's Works and the Difficulties of the Age

It was a bold, perhaps a rash idea, to collect the writings of Henry Brougham. They were written at such distant dates; their subjects are so various; they are often so wedged into the circumstances of an age-that they scarcely look natural in a series of volumes. Some men, doubtless, by a strong grasp of intellect, have compacted together subjects as various; the finger-marks of a few are on all human knowledge; others, by a rare illuminative power, have lit up as many with a light that seems peculiar to themselves. Franciscus Baconus sic cogitavit may well illustrate an opera omnia. But Lord Brougham has neither power; his restless genius has no claim to the still, illuminating imagination; his many-handed, apprehensive intelligence is scarcely able to fuse and concentrate. Variety is his taste, and versatility is his power. His career has not been quiet. For many years rushing among the details of an age, he has written as he ran. There are not many undertakings bolder than to collect the works of such a life and such a man. The edition itself seems a good one. The volumes are convenient in size, well printed, and fairly arranged. The various writings it contains have been revised, but not over-revised, by their author. It is not, however, of the collection that we wish to speak. We would endeavour, so far as a few hasty pages. may serve, to delineate the career and character of the writer. The attempt is among the most difficult.

Collecting the works of Henry Brougham was a bold, perhaps a rash idea. They were written at such distant times, their subjects are so diverse, and they are often so closely tied to the circumstances of the age that they do not look natural as a continuous series of volumes.

Certainly, there are those who have compiled diverse subjects through a strong grasp of intellect. A very few people have left their mark on all knowledge. Others, through a rare power of enlightenment, have illuminated many subjects with a light that seems uniquely their own. The phrase "Franciscus Baconus sic cogitavit" could well be a good example of an opera omnia. However, Lord Brougham possesses neither power. His restless talent has nothing to do with a quiet, illuminating imagination. His versatile and apprehensive intelligence is hardly able to fuse or concentrate things. Variety is his taste, and versatility is his power.

His career was not a quiet one. For many years, while placing himself in the midst of the events of the age, he wrote as he ran. There are not many attempts to collect the works of such a life and such a person. The edition itself seems to be a good one. The series is of a convenient size, well printed, and appropriately arranged. The various works contained within it have been revised by the author, but not excessively so. However, it is not that collection that we wish to speak about. We would like to attempt to delineate the writer's career and character to the extent that a few hasty pages can suffice. That attempt is one of the most difficult. 1 Works of Henry Lord Brougham, F.R.S., Member of the National Institute of France and the Royal Academy of Naples. London: Griffin.

1 Works of Henry Lord Brougham, F.R.S., Member of the National Institute of France and the Royal Academy of Naples. London: Griffin.

He is still among us; we have not the materials, possibly not the impartiality, of posterity. Nor have we the familiar knowledge of contemporaries; the time when Lord Brougham exerted his greatest faculties is beyond the political memory of younger men. There are no sufficient books on the events of a quarter of a century ago, we have only traditions; and this must be our excuse if we fall, or seem to fall, into error and confusion.

He is still alive. Therefore, we do not have the materials or the impartiality that posterity will likely possess. We are not familiar with the circumstances of that era as contemporaries. The time when Lord Brougham exerted his greatest abilities is beyond the political memory of the younger generation. There are no sufficient books regarding the events of a quarter-century ago; there are only traditions, not certain records. Therefore, if we fall into error or confusion, or if it appears so, this will be the reason you may forgive us.

The years immediately succeeding the great peace were years of sullenness and difficulty. The idea of the war had passed away; the thrill and excitement of the great struggle were no longer felt. We had maintained, with the greatest potentate of modern times, a successful contest for existence. We had our existence, but we had no more; our victory had been great, but it had no fruits. By the aid of pertinacity and capital, we had vanquished genius and valour; but no visible increase of European influence followed. Napoleon said that Wellington had made peace as if he had been defeated. We had delivered the Continent; such was our natural idea: but the Continent went its own way. There was nothing in its state to please the everyday Englishman. There were kings and emperors; 'which was very well for foreigners, they had always been like that; but it was not many kings could pay ten per cent. income-tax.' Absolutism, as such, cannot be popular in a free country. The Holy Alliance, which made a religion of despotism, was scarcely to be reconciled with the British constitution. Altogether we had vanquished Napoleon, but we had no pleasure in what came after him. The cause which agitated our hearts was gone; there was no longer a noise of victories in the air; continental affairs were dead, despotic, dull; we scarcely liked to think that we had made them so; with weary dissatisfaction we turned to our own condition.

The years immediately following the great peace were years of sullenness and difficulty. The idea of war had faded away, and the thrill and excitement of that great struggle were no longer felt. We had maintained a successful contest for existence against the greatest potentate of modern times. However, we had only survived, and gained nothing more. Our victory was great, but it bore no fruit.

With the help of persistence and capital, we defeated genius and valor. However, there was no noticeable increase in European influence. Napoleon even said that Wellington had made peace as if he had been defeated. We had liberated the Continent; that was our natural idea. But the Continent went its own way. There was nothing in that situation to please the average Englishman. Kings and emperors existed, but the view was that "that might be fine for foreigners, as they had always been like that. But not many kings could pay a ten percent income tax." Absolutism itself cannot be popular in a free country. The Holy Alliance, which made despotism a religion, was hardly compatible with the British constitution.

In the end, although we had defeated Napoleon, we felt no joy in what followed. The cause that had stirred our hearts was lost, and the sound of victory no longer echoed in the air. Continental affairs were as if dead, despotic, and dull. We hated to even think that we had made them so. With weary dissatisfaction, we turned our eyes to the situation of our own country.

2. Social and Economic Chaos After the Napoleonic Wars and the Government's Response

This was profoundly unsatisfactory. Trade was depressed; agriculture ruinous; the working class singularly disaffected. During the war, our manufacturing industry had grown most rapidly; there was a not unnatural expectation that, after a general peace, the rate of increase would be accelerated. The whole continent, it was considered, would be opened to us; Milan and Berlin decrees no longer excluded us; Napoleon did not now interpose between 'the nation of shopkeepers and its customers; now he was at St. Helena, surely those customers would buy? It was half forgotten that they could not. The drain of capital for the war had been, at times, heavily felt in England; there had been years of poverty and discredit; still our industry had gone on, our workshops had not stopped. We had never known what it was to be the seat of war, as well as a power at war. We had never known our burdens enormously increased, just when our industry was utterly stopped; disarranged as trading credit sometimes was, it had not been destroyed. No conscription had drained us of our most efficient consumers. The Continent, south and north, had, though not everywhere alike, suffered all these evils; its populations were poor, harassed, depressed. They could not buy our manufactures, for they had no money. The large preparations for a continental export lay on hand; our traders were angry and displeased. Nor was content to be found in the agricultural districts. During the war, the British farmer had inevitably a monopoly of this market; at the approach of peace, his natural antipathy to foreign corn influenced the legislature. The Home Secretary of the time had taken into consideration whether 76s. or 80s. was such a remunerating price as the agriculturist should obtain, and a corn-law had passed accordingly. But no law could give the farmer famine prices, when there was scarcity here and plenty abroad. There were riots at the passing of the 'Bread-tax,' as it was; in 1813, the price of corn was 120s.; the rural mind was sullen in 1816, when it sunk to 57s. The protection given, though unpopular with the poor, did not satisfy the farmer.

This was an extremely unsatisfactory state. Trade was stagnant, agriculture was devastated, and the working class was particularly dissatisfied. During the war, our manufacturing industry had grown most rapidly. Therefore, there was a very natural expectation that after universal peace arrived, the rate of increase would accelerate. It was thought that the entire continent would be opened to us. The Milan and Berlin decrees no longer excluded us, and Napoleon no longer stood between the "nation of shopkeepers" and its customers. Now that he was at St. Helena, surely those customers would buy products? However, the fact that they could not buy was half-forgotten.

The drain of capital for the war was at times felt heavily in England, and we experienced years of poverty and credit insecurity. Still, our industry continued, and factories never stopped. We never knew what it was like to be a belligerent nation while our own country was a battlefield. We also did not experience the burden increasing enormously at the very moment when industry was completely stopped. Even if commercial credit was sometimes confused, it was never completely destroyed. We were never drained of our most efficient consumers by conscription.

From south to north, the various parts of the continent were suffering, if not uniformly, from all these calamities. Their inhabitants were poor, harassed, and dispirited. They had no money, and therefore could not buy our products. Large preparations had been made for continental exports, but they remained stagnant, and our traders were angry and dissatisfied.

The agricultural districts were also in an unsatisfactory state. During the war, the British farmer had necessarily monopolized this market. As peace approached, their innate aversion to foreign grain influenced Parliament. The Home Secretary of the time considered whether 76 or 80 shillings was a sufficient remunerative price for the farmer, and the Corn Laws were passed accordingly. However, in a situation of domestic shortage and foreign abundance, no law could guarantee a famine price to the farmer. Riots occurred when the law, dubbed the 'Bread Tax,' was passed.

In 1813, the price of grain was 120 shillings, but by 1816, when it had fallen to 57 shillings, the rural population was disgruntled. The protection granted was unpopular with the poor, yet it did not satisfy the farmers either.

The lower orders in the manufacturing districts were, of necessity, in great distress. The depression of trade produced its inevitable results of closed mills and scanty employment. Wages, when they could be obtained, were very low. The artisan population was then new to the vicissitudes of industry: how far they are, even now, instructed in the laws of trade, recent prosperity will hardly let us judge; but, at that time, they had no doubt that it was the fault of the State, and if not of particular statesmen, then of the essential institutions, that they were in want. They believed the Government ought to regulate their remuneration, and make it sufficient. During some straitened years of the war the name of 'Luddites' became known. They had principally shown their discontent by breaking certain machines, which they fancied deprived them of work. After the peace, the records of the time are full of 'Spencean Philanthropists,' 'Hampden Clubs,' and similar associations, all desiring a great reform—some of mere politics, others of the law of property and all social economy. Large meetings were everywhere held, something like those of the year 1839; a general insurrection, doubtless a wild dream of a few hot-brained dreamers, was fancied to have been really planned. The name 'Radical' came to be associated with this discontent. The spirit which, in after years, clamoured distinctly for the five points of the Charter, made itself heard in mutterings and threatenings.

The lower classes in the manufacturing districts were, of necessity, in great distress. The depression of trade brought about inevitable results such as the closing of mills and a sharp decline in employment; even when wages could be obtained, they were very low.

The artisans of that time were not accustomed to the ups and downs of industry. It would be difficult to judge how much they understand about the laws of trade today, given the recent prosperity. However, at that time, they believed without a doubt that their destitution was the fault of the State, and that it was not the fault of specific politicians, but of the fundamental institutions themselves. They believed that the government should regulate their remuneration and guarantee it sufficiently.

During the years of the war, when the economy was strained, the name 'Luddite' became known. They mainly expressed their discontent by destroying specific machines that they believed were depriving them of work. When peace arrived, many organizations such as 'Spencean Philanthropists' and 'Hampden Clubs' appeared in the records of the time. All of these were seeking major reforms; some desired pure political reform, while others hoped for reforms in property law and social economy in general.

Large meetings were held in various places, presenting an appearance similar to the meetings of 1839. There is no doubt that a full-scale insurrection was a wild dream of a few hot-headed dreamers, but it seemed as if it had really been planned. The name 'Radical' came to be associated with this discontent. The spirit that would later clearly demand the five points of the Charter began to be heard from this period as mutterings and threats.

Nor were the capitalists, who had created the new wealth, socially more at ease. Many of them, as large employers of labour, had a taste for Toryism; the rule of the people to them meant the rule of their workpeople. Some of the wealthiest and most skilful became associated with the aristocracy, but it was in vain with the majority to attempt it. Between them and the possessors of hereditary wealth there was fixed a great gulf; the contrast of habits, speech, manners, was too wide. The two might coincide in particular opinions; they might agree to support the same institutions; they might set forth, in a Conservative creed, the same form of sound words: but, though the abstract conclusions were identical, the mode of holding them—to borrow a subtlety of Father Newman's—was exceedingly different. The refined, discriminating, timorous immobility of the aristocracy was distinct from the coarse, dogmatic, keep-downishness of the manufacturer. Yet more marked was the contrast, when the opposite tendencies of temperament had produced, as they soon could not but do, a diversity of opinion. The case was not quite new in England. Mr. Burke spoke of the tendency of the first East Indians to Jacobinism. They could not, he said, bear that their present importance should have no proportion to their recently-acquired riches. No extravagant fortunes have, in this century, been made by Englishmen in India; but Lancashire has been a California. Families have been created there, whose names we all know, which we think of when we mention wealth; some of which are now, by lapse of time, passing into the hereditary caste of recognised opulence. This, however, has been a work of time; and, before it occurred, there was no such intermediate class between the new wealth and the old. 'It takes,' it is said that Sir Robert Peel observed, 'three generations to make a gentleman.' In the meantime, there was an inevitable misunderstanding; the new cloth was too coarse for the old. Besides this, many actual institutions offended the eyes of the middle class. The state of the law was opposed both to their prejudices and interests: that you could only recover your debts by spending more than the debt, was hard; and the injury was aggravated, the money was spent in 'special pleading'—'in putting a plain thing so as to perplex and mislead a plain man.' 'Lord Eldon and the Court of Chancery,' as Sydney Smith expressed it, 'sat heavy on mankind.' The existence of slavery in our colonies, strongly supported by a strong aristocratic and parliamentary influence, offended the principles of middle-class Christianity, and the natural sentiments of simple men. The cruelty of the penal law—the punishing with death sheep-stealing and shop-lifting—jarred the humanity of that second order of English society, which, from their habits of reading and non-reading, may be called, par excellence, the scriptural classes. The routine harshness of a not very wise executive did not mitigate the feeling. The modus operandi of Government appeared coarse and oppressive. We seemed to pay, too, a good deal for what we did not like. At the close of the war, the ten per cent. income tax was of course heavily oppressive. The public expenditure was beyond argument lavish; and it was spent in pensions, sinecures (for 'them idlers' in the speech of Lancashire), and a mass of sundries, that an economical man of business will scarcely admit to be necessary, and that even now, after countless prunings, produce periodically 'financial reform associations,' 'administrative leagues,' and other combinations which amply testify the enmity of thrifty efficiency to large figures and muddling management. There had remained from the eighteenth century a tradition of corruption, an impression that direct pecuniary malversation pervaded the public offices; an idea true in the days of Rigby or Bubb Dodington, but which, like many other impressions, continued to exist many years after the facts in which it originated had passed away. Government, in the hands of such a man as Lord Liverpool, was very different from government in the hands of Sir Robert Walpole; respectability was exacted; of actual money-taking there was hardly any. Still, especially among inferior officials, there was something to shock modern purity. The size of jobs was large: if the Treasury of that time could be revived, it would be depressed at the littleness of whatever is perpetrated in modern administration. There were petty abuses too in the country—in municipalities—in charitable trusts—in all outlying public moneys, which seemed to the offended man of business, who saw them with his own eyes, evident instances confirming his notion of the malpractices of Downing Street. There are only five little boys in the school of Rochester; they may cost 200l., and the income is 2000l., and the trustees don't account for the balance; which is the way things are done in England: we keeps an aristocracy,' &c. The whole of this feeling was concentrated into a detestation of rotten boroughs. The very name was enough; that Lord Dover, with two patent sinecures in the Exchequer and a good total for assisting in nothing at the Audit office, should return two members for one house, while Birmingham, where they made buttons,—'as good buttons as there are in the world, sir,'—returned no members at all, was an evident indication that reform was necessary. Mr. Canning was an eloquent man; but even he could not say that a decaying stump was 'the people.' Gatton and Old Sarum became unpopular. The source of power seemed absurd, and the use of power was tainted. Side by side with the incipient Chartism of the northern operative, there was growing daily more distinct and clear the Manchester philosophy, which has since expressed itself in the Anti-Corn-Law League, and which for good and evil is now an element so potent in our national life. Both creeds were forms of discontent. And the counterpoise was wanting. The English constitution has provided that there shall always be one estate raised above the storms of passion and controversy, which all parties may respect and honour. The King is to be loved. But this theory requires, for a real efficiency, that the throne be filled by such a person as can be loved. In those times it was otherwise. The nominal possessor of the crown was a very old man, whom an incurable malady had long sequestered from earthly things. The actual possessor of the royal authority was a voluptuary of overgrown person, now too old for healthy pleasure, and half sickened himself at the corrupt pursuits in which, nevertheless, he indulged perpetually. His domestic vices had become disgracefully public. Whatever might be the truth about Queen Caroline, no one could say she had been well treated. There was no loyalty on which suffering workers, or an angry middle class, could repose: all through the realm there was a miscellaneous agitation, a vague and wandering discontent.

The capitalists who had built up new wealth were also never in an easy situation socially. Many of them tended to favor the Tory party because they were in a position to employ large numbers of workers. This is because 'rule of the people' to them meant rule by their own workers. Some of the wealthiest and most capable were able to associate with the aristocratic class, but it was in vain for the majority to attempt it. There was a great gulf between them and those who possessed hereditary wealth, and the differences in habits, speech, and manners were far too great.

Both sides might agree on certain opinions, or they might agree to support the same institutions. They could have chanted the same 'sound words' in a conservative creed. However, even if the abstract conclusions were identical, the style of upholding them—to borrow Father Newman's delicate expression—was extremely different. The refined, discriminating, and timid immobility of the aristocracy was clearly different from the coarse, dogmatic, and oppressive temperament of the manufacturers. It was even more striking when the differing tendencies of temperament produced a diversity of opinion, as was inevitably bound to happen.

Such cases were not entirely new in England. Mr. Burke mentions the tendency of the first East Indians to lean toward Jacobinism. He stated that they could not bear that their current importance did not match the wealth they had recently acquired. In this century, Englishmen did not build up extravagant fortunes in India, but Lancashire was like a gold mine. Families were born there that we all know and think of when we speak of wealth, and some of them are transitioning into an hereditary class of recognized opulence with the passage of time. However, this was a process that required time, and before it occurred, there was no such intermediate class between the new wealth and the old. It is said that Sir Robert Peel remarked, 'It takes three generations to make a gentleman.' In the meantime, an inevitable misunderstanding arose. The new cloth was far too coarse for the old.

In addition to this, many existing institutions appeared unpleasant to the eyes of the middle class. The state of the law was contrary to both their prejudices and their interests. It was unreasonable that it cost more than the debt itself to recover a debt, and the damage was further aggravated. Money was spent on 'special pleading'—'explaining plain matters in a way that confuses or misleads the average person.' As Sydney Smith stated, 'Lord Eldon and the Court of Chancery were weighing heavily upon mankind.'

The existence of slavery in the colonies was strongly supported by powerful aristocratic forces and influence within Parliament, but it wounded the Christian principles of the middle class and the natural sentiments of simple people. The cruelty of the penal law—imposing the death penalty for sheep stealing or shoplifting—deeply shook the humanitarianism of the second layer of British society, which could be called the 'scriptural classes' precisely because of their habits of reading or not reading. The uniform harshness of an administration that could not be called very wise did not soothe this sentiment, but rather worsened it. The way the government was operated appeared coarse and oppressive.

We also felt as if we were paying a considerable amount for things we did not like. At the end of the war, the 10 percent income tax was naturally an extremely heavy burden. Public expenditure was undeniably wasteful, and it was spent on pensions, sinecures (for 'those idlers' in the words of the people of Lancashire), and miscellaneous items that an economical businessman would hardly admit to be necessary. Even now, after countless cuts, it continues to produce 'financial reform associations' and 'administrative leagues' periodically, which clearly demonstrate the hostility of diligent and efficient people toward large figures and sloppy management.

A tradition of corruption remained from the 18th century, that direct pecuniary malversation was rampant in public offices. This is an idea that was true in the days of Rigby or Bubb Dodington, but like many other impressions, it continued to exist for many years after the facts that formed its basis had passed away. A government entrusted to the hands of a person like Lord Liverpool was very different from a government entrusted to the hands of Sir Robert Walpole. Respectability was demanded, and there was hardly any actual taking of money. Still, especially among lower-level bureaucrats, there was something that would be unacceptable by modern ethical standards. The scale of corruption was large, and if the Treasury of that time were to be revived, it would be depressed by the smallness of the trivial things perpetrated in modern administration.

Minor abuses were also seen in the provinces—in municipalities, charitable trusts, and other public funds. To the uncomfortable businessman who actually witnessed them, these appeared as clear examples confirming his own ideas about the malpractice in Downing Street. It was like, 'There are only five little boys in the school of Rochester, yet it might cost 200 pounds, and the income is 2000 pounds, and the trustees do not report the balance. This is the way things are done in England. We are supporting the aristocracy.'

All of this sentiment was concentrated into a hatred for rotten boroughs. The name itself was enough to stir up dissatisfaction. It was a clear indication that reform was necessary that Lord Dover, who held two patent sinecures in the Exchequer and received a considerable amount for doing nothing at the Audit Office, should return two members for one house, while Birmingham, where they made buttons ('Sir, they are the best buttons in the world!'), returned no members at all. Mr. Canning was an eloquent man, but even he could not say that a corrupt stump was 'the people.' Gatton and Old Sarum became unpopular. The source of power seemed irrational, and the exercise of power was tainted.

Parallel to the incipient Chartism among the northern workers, the Manchester philosophy was growing more distinct and clear every day, which was later expressed in the Anti-Corn-Law League, and which, for better or worse, has become an extremely powerful element in our national life today. Both creeds were forms of discontent. And the thing to maintain the balance against them was missing.

The British constitution stipulates that there shall always be one class raised above the storms of passion and controversy, which all political parties can respect and honor. The King is a being who should be loved. However, for this theory to truly function, the throne must be occupied by a person who can be loved. The situation at that time was not so. The nominal heir to the throne was a very elderly person who had long been sequestered from the world by an incurable illness. The actual holder of royal authority was an obese voluptuary who was already too old for healthy pleasure, and who was in a state where he himself was half-sickened by the corrupt pursuits in which he nevertheless constantly indulged. His domestic vices had become disgracefully public. Whatever the truth might be about Queen Caroline, no one could say she had been treated decently.

Neither the suffering labourer nor the angry middle class had any loyalty to rely on. A miscellaneous agitation spread throughout the kingdom, and a vague sense of discontent prevailed.

The official mind of the time was troubled. We have a record of its speculations in the life of Lord Sidmouth, who more than any one perhaps embodied it. He had been Speaker, and was much inclined to remedy the discontent of the middle classes by naming them to the House.' A more conscientious man perhaps has never filled a public position. If the forms of the House of Commons had been intuitively binding, no one could have obeyed them better: the 'mace' was a 'counsel of perfection' to him; all disorder hateful. In the Home Office it was the same. The Luddites were people who would not obey the Speaker. Constituted authority must be enforced. The claims of a suffering multitude were not so much neglected as unappreciated. A certain illiberality, as we should now speak, pervades the whole kind of thought. The most striking feature is an indisposition, which by long indulgence has become an inability, to comprehend another person's view, to put oneself in another's mental place, to think what he thinks, to conceive what he inevitably is. Lord Sidmouth referred to the file. He found that Mr. Pitt had put down disaffection by severe measures. Accordingly, he suspended the Habeas Corpus Act, passed six Acts, commended a Peterloo massacre, not with conscious unfeelingness, but from an absorbed officiality, from a knowledge that this was what the department had done before, and an inference that this must be done again. As for the reforming ideas of the middle classes, red tape had never tied up such notions; perhaps it was the French Revolution over again: you could not tolerate them.

The mindset of government officials at the time was confused. We can see a record of these speculations in the life of Lord Sidmouth, who perhaps embodied that mindset more than anyone else. He had served as Speaker of the House and was strongly inclined to remedy the discontent of the middle class by 'naming them to the House.'

Perhaps no more conscientious man has ever held public office. If the forms of the House of Commons had been intuitively binding, he would have followed them better than anyone. The 'mace' was a 'counsel of perfection' to him, and all disorder was something to be loathed.

It was the same at the Home Office. The Luddites were people who would not follow the Speaker's instructions. Established authority had to be enforced. The demands of the suffering masses were not so much ignored as simply not understood. A certain kind of narrow-mindedness, as we would call it today, permeated his entire way of thinking. The most striking feature was a resistance—an inability caused by long-standing habit—to understand another person's perspective, to put oneself in another's place, to imagine how the other person thinks, or to conceive of what they essentially are.

Lord Sidmouth referred to past records. He found that Mr. Pitt had suppressed discontent through severe measures. Therefore, he suspended the Habeas Corpus Act, passed the Six Acts, and praised the Peterloo Massacre. This was not out of conscious heartlessness, but rather from being so absorbed in his official duties that he inferred that because this was what the department had done before, it must be done again. As for the reformist ideas of the middle class, bureaucratic procedures had never bound such notions; perhaps it was seen as a return of the French Revolution. They could not tolerate it.

3. The Rise of Lord Brougham as an Agitator

Between such a dominant mind as this, and such a subject mind as has been described, there was a daily friction. The situation afforded obvious advantages to enterprising men. Its peculiarity did not escape the shrewd eyes of John Lord Eldon. 'If,' said the Conservative Chancellor, I were to begin life again, d-n my eyes, but I would begin as an agitator.' Henry Brougham did so begin. During the war he had distinguished himself in the exposition of the grievances of the trading interest. Our Government had chosen a mode of carrying it on specially fitted to injure our commerce. 'Napoleon had said that no vessel should touch a British port, and then enter a French one, or one under French control. The Orders in Council said that no vessel whatever should enter any such port without having first touched at some port of Great Britain."1 The natural results were the annihilation of our trade with the Continent and a quarrel with the United States. The merchants of the country were alarmed at both consequences. Perhaps until then men hardly knew how powerful our trading classes had become. Meetings were held in populous places; petitions in great numbers—an impressive and important thing in those times-were presented. Wherever foreign commerce existed, the discontent expressed itself in murmurs. The forms of the House of Commons were far more favourable than they are now to action from without; and this is not unnatural, since there had been as yet but few actions from without, and it had not been necessary to have a guard against them. The petitions, as has been said, were numerous; and on the presentation of each there was a speech from the member presenting it, trying to bring on a debate, and suggesting topics which might irritate the ministry and convince the country.' Mr. Brougham was always in his place. "Hardly an hour passed without detecting some false statement or illogical argument; hardly a night passed without gaining some convert to the cause of truth.' The result was decisive. Although opposed by the whole weight of the Government both in public and out of doors; although at first vigorously resisted by the energy, the acuteness, the activity, and the expertness which made Mr. Perceval one of the first debaters of his day; although, after his death, the struggle was maintained by the father of the system with all his fire and with his full knowledge of the subjectnay, although' the Ministry risked their existence on the question, the victory remained with the petitioners. The Orders in Council were abolished, and the efficacy of agitation proved.

Daily friction occurred between such a dominant mindset and the submissive mindset described earlier. This situation provided clear advantages to enterprising individuals. Its peculiarity did not escape the shrewd eyes of John, Lord Eldon. The Conservative Chancellor said, 'If I could start my life over, I swear I would begin as an agitator.'

Henry Brougham started his career exactly that way. During the war, he distinguished himself by making public the grievances of the trading community. The government of the time chose a method of conducting the war that was particularly damaging to our commerce. While Napoleon stated that 'no vessel shall touch a British port and then enter a French port, or one under French control,' the Orders in Council declared that 'no vessel whatever shall enter any such port without having first touched at some port of Great Britain.' As a natural result, our trade with the European continent was devastated, and a conflict arose with the United States.

Merchants in the country were alarmed by these two outcomes. Perhaps until then, people hardly knew how powerful our trading classes had become. Meetings were held in densely populated areas, and numerous petitions were submitted. At the time, this was very impressive and important. Wherever foreign trade existed, discontent was expressed in murmurs. The forms of the House of Commons were far more tolerant of outside action than they are now. This is not unnatural, because at the time there were few such outside actions, and there was no need to solidify defenses against them.

As mentioned, petitions were numerous. Every time one was submitted, the member who presented it would give a speech, urging debate and suggesting topics that would irritate the government and convince the public. Mr. Brougham was always in his seat. It is said that 'hardly an hour passed without detecting some false statement or illogical argument, and hardly a night passed without gaining some new convert to the cause of truth.'

The result was decisive. Despite facing the full resistance of the government, both publicly and privately; despite being fiercely resisted at first by the energy, sharpness, activity, and expertise that made Mr. Perceval one of the best debaters of his day; and even after his death, despite the struggle being continued by the system's creator with all his passion and full knowledge of the subject—nay, even though the government staked its very existence on the issue—the victory remained in the hands of the petitioners. The Orders in Council were abolished, and the effectiveness of agitation was proven.

This and the following quotations are from the Speeches of Lord Brougham and the Introductions to them, published in 1838. The latter were written by himself. 2 Mr. Stephen.The session of 1816 offered an example yet more remarkable of the same tactics being attended with signal success. On the termination of the war, the Government were determined, instead of repealing the whole income-tax, which the law declared to be "for and during the continuance of the war, and no longer," to retain one-half of it.' 'As soon as this intention was announced, several meetings were held.' Some petitions were presented. Mr. Brougham declared that, if the motion were pressed on Thursday, he should avail himself of the forms of the House.' Of course the unpopularity of paying money was decisive; the income-tax fell. The same faculty of aggression, which had been so successful in these instances, was immediately so applied as to give voice to the sullenness of the country; to express forms of discontent as real, though not with an object as determinate.

This quotation and the ones that follow are from the collection of Lord Brougham's speeches and the introductions to them, published in 1838, which he wrote himself.

In the 1816 parliamentary session, there was an even more remarkable example of the same tactics meeting with signal success. Upon the conclusion of the war, the government decided to retain half of the income tax, instead of repealing it entirely, even though the law had clearly stated it was 'for and during the continuance of the war, and no longer.'

As soon as this intention was announced, meetings were held in various places, and several petitions were submitted. Lord Brougham declared that if the motion were to be forced through on Thursday, he would 'make the most of the parliamentary procedures.' Naturally, the public's dissatisfaction with paying taxes had a decisive effect, and the income tax was abolished.

His aggressive ability, which had been so successful in these instances, was immediately utilized to give voice to the gloomy atmosphere of the entire country and to concretely express the deep-seated discontent of the masses, even if the objective was not clearly defined.

Mr. Brougham did not understate his case: "There is one branch of the subject which I shall pass over altogether-I mean the amount of the distresses which are now universally admitted to prevail over almost every part of the empire. Upon this topic all men are agreed; the statements connected with it are as unquestionable as they are afflicting.' Nor did he shrink from detail. I shall suppose,' he observed to the House, 'a farm of 400 acres of fair, good land, yielding a rent of from 500l. to 600l. a-year.' It will require a four years' course200 acres being in corn, 100 in fallow, and 100 in hay and grass;' and he seems to prove that at least it ought not to answer, independently of the great rise in lime and all sorts of manure.' The commercial mania of the time takes its turn in the description. After the cramped state in which the enemy's measures, and our own retaliation (as we termed it) had kept our trade for some years, when the events of spring 1814 suddenly opened the Continent, a rage for exporting goods of every kind burst forth, only to be explained by reflecting on the previous restrictions we had been labouring under, and only to be equalled (though not in extent) by some of the mercantile delusions connected with South American speculations. Everything that could be shipped was sent off; all the capital that could be laid hold of was embarked. The frenzy, I can call it nothing less, after the experience of 1806 and 1810, descended to persons in the humblest circumstances and the farthest removed, by their pursuits, from commercial cares. It may give the committee some idea of this disease, if I state what I know to have happened in one or two places. Not only clerks and labourers, but menial servants, engaged the little sums which they had been laying up for a provision against old age and sickness; persons went round tempting them to adventure in the trade to Holland, and Germany, and the Baltic; they risked their mite in the hopes of boundless profits; it went with the millions of the more regular traders: the bubble soon burst, like its predecessors of the South Sea, the Mississippi, and Buenos Ayres; English goods were selling for much less in Holland and the north of Europe than in London and Manchester; in most places they were lying a dead weight without any sale at all; and either no returns whatever were received, or pounds came back for thousands that had gone forth. The great speculators broke; the middling ones lingered out a precarious existence, deprived of all means of continuing their dealings either at home or abroad; the poorer dupes of the delusion had lost their little hoards, and went upon the parish the next mishap that befel them; but the result of the whole has been much commercial distress -a caution now absolutely necessary in trying new adventures-a prodigious diminution in the demand for manufactures, and indirectly a serious defalcation in the effectual demand for the produce of land.'

Lord Brougham did not underestimate his own argument: 'There is one branch of the subject which I shall pass over entirely—I mean the extent of the distress that is now universally admitted to prevail throughout almost every part of the empire. On this topic, all men are in agreement; the statements connected with it are as unquestionable as they are painful.'

Furthermore, he never shied away from details. He stated to Parliament: 'Let us assume, for example, a good farm of 400 acres, yielding a rent of 500 to 600 pounds per year.' He explained that this would require 'a four-year rotation consisting of 200 acres of grain, 100 acres of fallow land, and 100 acres of hay and pasture.' And he seems to prove that this farm cannot be profitable, especially considering that the prices of lime and all kinds of fertilizers have risen significantly.

The commercial frenzy of that time is also described in his accounts. Due to the measures of enemy nations and our own policies, which we called 'retaliation,' trade had been stagnant for several years. However, when the events of the spring of 1814 suddenly opened up the European continent, a fierce frenzy for the export of all kinds of goods erupted. This is understandable given the restrictions we had previously endured, and it could be said to be comparable (though on a different scale) to some of the commercial illusions associated with South American speculation.

Everything that could be shipped was sent, and all available capital was invested. Looking back at the experiences of 1806 and 1810, this can only be called 'madness.' This frenzy spread even to those in the poorest circumstances, and to those whose livelihoods were furthest removed from commercial concerns.

To help the committee understand what this 'disease' was like, let me state what I know actually happened in one or two places. Not only clerks and laborers, but even domestic servants invested the meager money they had saved for old age or illness. People went around inciting them to dabble in trade with the Netherlands, Germany, and the Baltic. They risked their modest savings, dreaming of getting rich quick. That money vanished along with the vast sums lost by more regular traders. The bubble burst quickly, just like the past cases of the South Sea, Mississippi, and Buenos Aires. British goods were sold much cheaper in the Netherlands and Northern Europe than in London or Manchester. In most places, the goods remained unsold as bad stock. And the result was either no return at all, or only a few pounds returned for every thousand in capital sent out.

Large speculators went bankrupt, and medium-sized traders were stripped of all means to continue domestic and international transactions, barely maintaining an unstable existence. The poor victims of this illusion lost their meager savings, and when they next encountered misfortune, they were forced to rely on parish relief. However, as a result of these events, much commercial distress arose, along with the caution now absolutely necessary when attempting new ventures, a tremendous decrease in demand for manufacturing, and indirectly, a serious decline in the actual demand for land produce.

Next year Mr. Brougham described as the worst season ever known. The year 1812, a year before esteemed one of much suffering, rose in comparison to one of actual prosperity. He began with the clothing, a branch of trade which, from accidental circumstances, is not as depressed as our other great staples; he passed to the iron trade, &c., &c. He dilated on the distress, the discontent and suffering of the people. Of course the Government were to blame. He moved that the 'unexampled' difficulties of trade and manufactures were materially increased by the policy pursued with respect to our foreign commerce-that the continuance of these difficulties is in a great degree owing to the severe pressure of taxation under which the country labours, and which ought by every practicable means to be lightened-that the system of foreign policy pursued by his Majesty's ministers has not been such as to obtain for the people of this country those commercial advantages which the influence of Great Britain in foreign countries fairly entitled them to expect.' As became a pupil of the Edinburgh University, Mr. Brougham was not averse to political economy. He was ready to discuss the theory of rent or the corn-laws. He made a speech, which he relates as having had a greater success than any other which he made in Parliament, in support of Mr. Calcraft's amendment, to substitute 192,638l. 48. 9d. for 385,276l. 9s. 6d., the estimate for the household troops.' Foreign policy was a favourite topic. Almost unsupported, as he said some years after, he attacked the Holy Alliance. Looking back through the softening atmosphere of reminiscence, he almost seems to have a kindness for Lord Castlereagh. He remembers with pleasure the utter courage with which he exposed himself unabashed to the most critical audience in the world, while incapable of uttering anything but the meanest matter, expressed in the most wretched language;' nor has he 'forgotten the kind of pride that mantled on the fronts of the Tory phalanx when, after being overwhelmed with the fire of the Whig Opposition, or galled by the fierce denunciations of the Mountain, or harassed by the splendid displays of Mr. Canning, their chosen leader stood forth, and presenting the graces of his eminently patrician figure, flung open his coat, displayed an azure ribbon traversing a snow-white chest, and declared his high satisfaction that he could now meet the charges against him face to face, and repel with indignation all that his adversaries had been bold and rash enough to advance.' But the 'Mr. Brougham' of that time showed no admiration; no denunciations were stronger than his; no sarcasm impinged more deeply; if the 'noble lord in the blue ribbon' wished anyone out of the House, the 'man from the Northern Circuit' was probably that one. Kings and emperors met with little mercy, and later years have shown how little was merited by the petty absolutism and unthinking narrowness of that time.

The following year, Lord Brougham described it as 'the worst season ever known.' He argued that even 1812, which had been considered a year of great suffering until then, was a year of actual prosperity by comparison. He began by speaking about the clothing industry, which was a sector that, due to accidental circumstances, was not as depressed as other major industries. From there, he moved on to the steel industry and others, detailing the poverty, discontent, and suffering of the people.

Of course, he held the government responsible. He proposed: 'The 'unexampled' difficulties in trade and manufacturing are significantly increased by our foreign commercial policy. The continuation of these difficulties is largely due to the heavy taxation under which the country labors, and it should be alleviated by every possible means. Furthermore, the foreign policy pursued by His Majesty's ministers has not been such as to secure for the people of this country the commercial advantages that Great Britain's influence in foreign countries should rightfully entitle them to.'

As a student of the University of Edinburgh, Lord Brougham was well-versed in political economy. He was prepared to discuss the theory of rent and the Corn Laws. He delivered a speech which he recounted as having had greater success than any other speech he made in Parliament. It was in support of Mr. Calcraft's amendment to replace the budget estimate for the household troops of 385,276 pounds, 9 shillings, and 6 pence with 192,638 pounds, 4 shillings, and 9 pence.

Foreign policy was his favorite theme. As he said some years later, he attacked the Holy Alliance almost single-handedly. However, looking back through the softened atmosphere of his memoirs, he almost seems to harbor a fondness for Lord Castlereagh. He recalls with pleasure the 'utter courage with which he exposed himself unabashed to the most critical audience in the world, while incapable of uttering anything but the meanest matter, expressed in the most wretched language.' He also has not forgotten 'the kind of pride that mantled on the fronts of the Tory phalanx when, after being overwhelmed with the fire of the Whig Opposition, or galled by the fierce denunciations of the Mountain, or harassed by the splendid displays of Mr. Canning, their chosen leader stood forth, and presenting the graces of his eminently patrician figure, flung open his coat, displayed an azure ribbon traversing a snow-white chest, and declared his high satisfaction that he could now meet the charges against him face to face, and repel with indignation all that his adversaries had been bold and rash enough to advance.'

However, the 'Mr. Brougham' of that time showed no such admiration. There were no denunciations stronger than his, and no sarcasm that struck deeper. If the 'noble lord in the blue ribbon' wished to exclude someone from Parliament, the 'man from the Northern Circuit' would have been that target. Kings and emperors were shown little mercy. And later years have shown how little the petty absolutism and thoughtless narrow-mindedness of that time deserved to be rewarded.

That Mr. Brougham indissolubly connected the education movement with his name everybody knows, but scarcely anyone remembers how unpopular that movement was. Mr. Windham had said, some years before, That the diffusion of knowledge was proper, might be supported by many good arguments; but he confessed he was a sceptic on that point. It was said, Look at the state of the savages as compared with ours. A savage among savages was very well, and the difference was only perceived when he came to be introduced into civilised society.' 'His friend, Dr. Johnson, was of opinion that it was not right to teach reading beyond a certain extent in society. The same feeling continued. Mr. Peel, in his blandest tones, attacked the education committee. Lord Stowell, not without sagacity, observed, 'If you provide a larger amount of highly-cultivated talent than there is a demand for, the surplus is very likely to turn sour.' Such were the sentiments of some of the best scholars of that era; and so went all orthodox sentiment. That education was the same as republicanism, and republicanism as infidelity, half the curates believed. But, in spite of all this opposition, perhaps with more relish on account of it, Mr. Brougham was ever ready. He was a kind of prophet of knowledge. His voice was heard in the streets. He preached the gospel of the alphabet; he sang the praises of the primer all the day long. Practical observations,' 'discourses,* 'speeches,' exist, terrible to all men now. To the kind of education then advocated there may be objections. We may object to the kind of 'knowledge' then most sought after; but there can be no doubt that those who then laboured in its behalf must be praised for having inculcated, in the horrid heat of the day, as a boring paradox what is now a boring commonplace.

Everyone knows that Lord Brougham indissolubly linked his name with the education movement, but almost no one remembers how unpopular that movement was at the time. Mr. Windham had said some years earlier: 'The claim that the diffusion of knowledge is appropriate might be supported by many good arguments. However, I must admit that I am skeptical on that point. People say, look at the state of savages compared to ours. A savage living among savages is fine, and the difference is only perceived when he is introduced into civilized society.' His friend, Dr. Johnson, was also of the opinion that 'it is not appropriate to teach reading and writing beyond a certain extent in society.'

Such sentiments continued thereafter. Mr. Peel attacked the Education Committee in his mildest tone. Lord Stowell, not without sagacity, stated: 'If you provide a larger amount of highly-cultivated talent than there is a demand for, the surplus is very likely to turn sour.' These were some of the thoughts of the best scholars of that time, and all orthodox views were the same. Half of the parish curates believed that education was the same as republicanism, and republicanism was the same as infidelity.

However, despite all this opposition—or perhaps precisely because of it—Lord Brougham was always ready. He was like a prophet of knowledge. His voice echoed in the streets, he preached the gospel of the alphabet, and he sang the praises of the primer all day long. His 'Practical Observations,' 'Discourses,' and 'Speeches' still exist, though they are now the kind of things that everyone hesitates to read.

There may be objections to the way of education he advocated at the time. There may also be objections to the kind of 'knowledge' that was most sought after then. However, it is an undeniable fact that the merit of those who, in that sweltering heat, taught and spread what was then a boring paradox—which is now a boring commonplace—should be highly praised.

Our space would fail us if we were to attempt to recount Brougham's labours on the slavery question, on George IV. and Queen Caroline, or his hundred encounters with the routine statesmen. The series commenced at the Peace, but it continued for many years. Is not its history written in the chronicles of Parliament? You must turn the leaves-no unpleasant reading-of those old debates, and observe how often Mr. Brougham's name occurs, and on what cumbrous subjects, before you can estimate the frequency of his attacks and the harassing harshness of his labour. One especial subject was his more than any other man's-law reform. He had Romilly and Mackintosh as fellow-labourers in the amelioration of the penal code; he had their support, and that of some others, in his incessant narrations of the grievances of individuals, and denunciations of the unfeeling unthinkingness of our Home administration; but no man grappled so boldly-we had almost said so coarsely-with the crude complexities of our civil jurisprudence: for a rougher nature, a more varied knowledge of action than we can expect of philanthropists were needed for that task. The subject was most difficult to deal with. The English commerce and civilisation had grown up in the meshes of a half-feudal code, further complicated with the curious narrowness and spirit of chicane which haunt everywhere the law-courts of early times. The technicality which produced the evil made the remeay more difficult. There was no general public opinion on the manner of reform; the public felt the evil, but no one could judge of the efficacy of a remedy, save persons studious in complicated learning, who would hardly be expected to show how that learning could be rendered useless-hardly, indeed, to imagine a world in which it did not exist. The old creed, that these ingenious abuses were the last perfection of reason,' still lingered. It must give Lord Brougham some pride to reflect how many of the improvements which he was the first to popularise, if not to suggest, have been adopted-how many old abuses of detail, which he first indicated to Parliament, exist no longer-how many more are now admitted by everybody to be abuses, though the mode of abolition is contested. The speech on law reform, which he published in the collected edition of his speeches, is nearly a summary of all that has been done or suggested in common or civil law reform for the last thirty years. The effect which so bold an attack on so many things by a single person produced in that conservative time was prodigious. There never was such a nuisance as the man is,' said an old lawyer whom we knew; and he expressed the feeling of his profession. If we add, that beside all these minor reforms and secondary agitations, Mr. Brougham was a bold advocate of Catholic emancipation and parliamentary reform-the largest heresies of that epoch-we may begin to understand the sarcasm of Mr. Canning: The honourable and learned gentleman, having in the course of his parliamentary life, supported or proposed almost every species of innovation which could be practised on the constitution, it was not very easy for ministers to do anything without seeming to borrow from him. Break away in what direction they would, whether to the right or to the left, it was all alike. "Oh," said the honourable gentleman, "I was there before you: you would not have thought of that if I had not given you a hint." In the reign of Queen Anne there was a sage and grave critic of the name of Dennis, who in his old age got it into his head that he had written all the good plays which were acted at that time. At last a tragedy came forth with a most imposing display of hail and thunder. At the first peal, Dennis exclaimed: “That is my thunder!" So with the honourable and learned gentleman; there was no noise astir for the good of mankind in any part of the world, but he instantly claimed it for his thunder.' We may have wearied our readers with these long references to old conflicts, but it was necessary. We are familiar with the aberrations of the ex-Chancellor; we forget how bold, how efficacious, how varied was the activity of Henry Brougham.

It would be impossible to recount all of Lord Brougham's labors regarding the slavery question, the turmoil surrounding George IV and Queen Caroline, or his countless clashes with routine politicians within this limited space. His series of activities began with the peace treaty, but continued for many years. Is its history not etched in the chronicles of Parliament? To understand how frequent his attacks were and how harsh his labors were, one must read back through the records of those old, good parliamentary debates. There, you will see how often Mr. Brougham's name appears, and regarding what cumbersome subjects.

The subject he focused on more than anyone else was law reform. In the improvement of the penal code, he worked with Romilly and Mackintosh as fellow laborers, and he received support from them and several others in his incessant complaints about individual grievances and his denunciations of the unfeeling and thoughtless response of the Home administration. However, no one tackled the crude and complex problems of our civil jurisprudence as boldly—one might almost say as coarsely—as he did. This task required a rougher nature and a more varied knowledge of action than could be expected of philanthropists.

This subject was extremely difficult to handle. English commerce and civilization had grown up within the meshes of a half-feudal code, further complicated by the strange narrow-mindedness and spirit of chicane that haunted the law courts from early times. The technical aspects that produced the evil made the remedy even more difficult. There was no settled public opinion on how to reform it. The public felt the evil, but only a very few experts well-versed in complex learning could judge the efficacy of a remedy. And they could hardly be expected to show how that learning could be rendered useless, nor could they, in fact, even imagine a world in which it did not exist. The old belief that these ingenious abuses were the 'ultimate perfection of reason' still lingered strongly.

Lord Brougham must feel a certain pride when he looks back and sees how many of the improvements he advocated (if not suggested) have been adopted, how many of the detailed old abuses he first pointed out to Parliament no longer exist, and how many things that everyone now admits to be abuses—even if the methods of their abolition are still debated—have been addressed. The speeches on legal reform that he included in his collection of speeches could be called a near-summary of all the efforts made or suggested in the reform of common or civil law over the past thirty years. The impact that one person boldly attacking so many things had on that conservative era was immeasurably great.

A certain old lawyer we knew once remarked, 'There is no one more annoying than that man,' which well expressed the sentiment of the legal profession at the time. If we add to all these small reforms and secondary social movements the fact that Mr. Brougham was a brave champion of the greatest 'heresies' of the time—Catholic Emancipation and Parliamentary Reform—we can begin to understand the irony of Mr. Canning.

'That venerable and learned gentleman (Brougham) has, in the course of his parliamentary life, supported or proposed almost every kind of innovation that could be applied to the Constitution, so it was not very easy for the ministers to do anything without appearing to have borrowed it from him. Whether they went to the right or to the left, it was all the same in whatever direction they proceeded. "Ah," said the venerable gentleman, "I was there before you. If I hadn't given you the hint, you wouldn't have noticed it." In the reign of Queen Anne, there was a wise and solemn critic named Dennis. In his old age, he became convinced that he had written all the good plays performed at the time. Finally, a tragedy appeared with a magnificent production of hail and thunder. At the first clap of thunder, Dennis shouted, "That is my thunder!" The venerable and learned gentleman was the same. Even if there was a stir for humanity somewhere in the world, he immediately claimed it as his thunder.'

We may have bored our readers with this long reference to old rivalries. However, this was necessary. We are well aware of the erratic behavior of the former Prime Minister (Brougham), but we tend to forget how bold, how effective, and how wide-ranging the activities of Henry Brougham were.

4. Qualities and Strengths as an Agitator

There are several qualities in his genius which make such a life peculiarly suited to him. The first of these is an aggressive, impulsive disposition. Most people may admit that the world goes ill; old abuses seem to exist, questionable details to abound. Hardly anyone thinks that anything may not be made better. But how to improve the world, to repair the defects, is a difficulty. Immobility is a part of man. A sluggish conservatism is the basis of our English nature. 'Learn, my son,' said the satirist, 'to bear tranquilly the calamities of others.' We easily learn it. Most men have a line of life, and it imposes certain duties which they fulfil; but they cannot be induced to start out of that line. We dwell in a firm basis of content. 'Let the mad world go its own way, for it will go its own way.' There is no doctrine of the English Church more agreeable to our instinctive taste than that which forbids all works of supererogation. 'You did a thing without being obliged,' said an eminent statesman: 'then that must be wrong.' We travel in the track. Lord Brougham is the opposite of this. It is not difficult to him to attack abuses. The more difficult thing for him would be to live in a world without abuses. An intense excitability is in his nature. He must 'go off.' He is eager to reform corruption, and rushes out to refute error. A tolerant placidity is altogether denied to him. And not only is this excitability eager, it is many-sided. The men who have in general exerted themselves in labours for others, have generally been rather of a brooding nature; certain ideas, views and feelings have impressed themselves on them in solitude; they come forth with them among the crowd, but they have no part in its diversified life. They are almost irritated by it. They have no conception except of their cause; they are abstracted in one thought, pained with the dizziness of a heated idea. There is nothing of this in Brougham. He is excited by what he sees. The stimulus is from without. He saw the technicalities of the law-courts; observed a charitable trustee misusing the charity moneys; perceived that George IV. oppressed Queen Caroline; went to Old Sarum. He is not absorbed in a creed: he is pricked by facts. Accordingly, his activity is miscellaneous. The votary of a doctrine is concentrated, for the logical consequences of a doctrine are limited. But an open-minded man, who is aroused by what he sees, quick at discerning abuses, ready to reform anything which he thinks goes wrong—will never have done acting. The details of life are endless, and each of them may go wrong in a hundred ways.

Lord Brougham's talents possessed several characteristics that were perfectly suited to the life he led. The first of these is an aggressive and impulsive temperament.

Most people would admit that the world is not going well. Old abuses exist, and there seem to be countless questionable points. Hardly anyone thinks that nothing can be improved. However, finding a way to make the world better and repair its defects is difficult. Stagnation is part of human nature. At the root of our English temperament lies a sluggish conservatism. The satirist said, 'Learn, my son, to bear the calamities of others with tranquility.' We learn this easily. Many people decide on a path in life, fulfill the specific duties that come with it, and are not moved even if urged to deviate from that path. 'We dwell on a firm foundation of contentment.' 'Let the mad world go its own way, for it will go its own way.' There is no doctrine in the Church of England more in line with our instinctive tastes than that which forbids all 'works of supererogation.' An eminent statesman once said, 'You did something without being obliged to. Therefore, it must be wrong.' We walk the beaten path.

However, Lord Brougham was the exact opposite. For him, attacking abuses was not difficult at all. Rather, what would be more difficult for him would be to live in a world without abuses. An intense excitability resides in his nature. He 'cannot help but burst out.' He is eager to reform corruption and rushes out immediately to refute errors. A tolerant placidity is completely foreign to him.

And this excitability is not just eager; it is multifaceted. People who have generally exerted themselves for the sake of others are often of a brooding, introspective nature. Certain ideas, views, and feelings are deeply ingrained in them in solitude, and they bring these into the crowd, but they do not blend into the diverse life of the crowd. They are almost irritated by it. They understand nothing but their own 'cause,' are absorbed in a single thought, and suffer from the dizziness caused by a heated idea.

Lord Brougham has none of these tendencies. He is excited by what he sees. The stimulus comes from the outside. He saw the complexity of legal jargon in the courts. He witnessed a charitable trustee misusing charity funds. He recognized that George IV was oppressing Queen Caroline. And he went to Old Sarum, a rotten borough. He is not absorbed in a specific creed; he is driven by facts.

Therefore, his activities are wide-ranging. A devotee of a doctrine acts with concentration because the logical consequences of that doctrine are limited. However, a person with an open mind who is awakened by what they see, quick to discern abuses, and ready to reform anything they think is going wrong will never stop acting. The details of life are endless, and each one holds the potential to go wrong in countless ways.

Another faculty of Brougham (in metaphysics it is perhaps but a phase of the same) is the faculty of easy anger. The supine placidity of civilisation is not favourable to animosity. A placid Conservative is perhaps a little pleased that the world is going a little ill. Lord Brougham does not feel this. Like an Englishman on the Continent, he is ready to blow up anyone. He is a Jonah of detail; he is angry at the dust of life, and wroth with the misfeasances of employés. The most reverberating of bastinadoes is the official mind basted by Brougham. You did this wrong; why did you omit that? Document C ought to be on the third file; paper D is wrongly docketed in the ninth file. Red tape will scarcely succeed when it is questioned; you should take it as Don Quixote did his helmet, without examination, for a most excellent helmet. A vehement, industrious man proposing to untie papers and not proposing to spare errors is the terror of a respectable administrator. 'Such an impracticable man, sir, interfering with the office, attacking private character, messing in what cannot concern him.' These are the jibes which attend an irritable anxiety for the good of others. They have attended Lord Brougham through life. He has enough of misanthropy to be a philanthropist. How much of this is temper, and how much public spirit, it is not for anyone to attempt to say. That a natural pleasure in wrath is part of his character, no one who has studied the career of Brougham can doubt. But no fair person can doubt, either, that he has shown on many great occasions—and, what is more, on many petty occasions—a rare zeal for the public welfare. He may not be capable of the settled calm by which the world is best administered. There is a want of consistency in his goodness, of concentration in his action. The gusts of passion pass over him, and he is gone for a time you can scarcely say where. But, though he is the creature of impulse, his impulses are often generous and noble ones. No one would do what he has done, no one could have the intense motive power to do what he has done, without a large share of diffused unselfishness. The irritation of the most acute excitability would not suffice. It is almost an axiom in estimates of human nature, that in its larger operations all that nature must concur. Doubtless there is a thread of calculation in the midst of his impulses; no man rises to be lord-chancellor without, at least in lulls and intervals of impulse, a most discriminating and careful judgment of men and things and chances. But after every set-off and abatement, and without any softening of unamiable indications, there will yet remain—and a long series of years will continue to admire it—an eager principle of disinterested action.

Another of Lord Brougham's talents (though perhaps it is merely one facet of the same quality in metaphysical terms) is the ability to feel anger easily. The indifferent placidity of civilized society is not conducive to fostering animosity. A placid conservative might perhaps be somewhat pleased if the world is going a little wrong. However, Lord Brougham is not like that. Like an Englishman on the Continent, he is always ready to let his emotions explode at anyone. He is like a 'Jonah' (a nuisance) troubled by details; he gets angry at the trivialities of life and is indignant at the misconduct of employees. The most stinging blow is likely the one dealt to the official mind by Brougham.

'This is wrong! Why did you omit that? Document C should be in the third file, yet document D is wrongly labeled in the ninth file!'

'Bureaucracy hardly functions when it is questioned. Perhaps there was a trend that bureaucracy should be accepted unconditionally, just as Don Quixote believed his helmet was the best without examining it. However, a passionate and industrious person who declares they will untie papers and show no mercy for errors is a source of terror for a respectable administrator. "That such an impractical man would interfere with the office, attack private character, and poke his nose into things that don't concern him!" These are the mocking words that follow those who cannot hide their irritation from a desire for the benefit of others. Lord Brougham has been dogged by such mockery throughout his life. He possessed enough misanthropy to be a philanthropist.'

Whether it is temperament or public spirit—no one can definitively say how much of this is due to his disposition and how much to his public spirit. No one who has studied Brougham's career can doubt that finding a natural pleasure in wrath is part of his character. However, no fair-minded person can doubt that he has shown a rare zeal for the public welfare on many important occasions—and, indeed, even on many trivial ones.

He may not have possessed the settled calm by which the world is best managed. His goodness lacked consistency, and his actions lacked concentration. Gusts of passion would blow over him, and there were times when it was unclear where he had gone. However, despite being a creature of impulse, his impulses were often generous and noble. Could anyone else have accomplished what he did? Without a broad, selfless spirit, no one could have possessed the intense motivational power that enabled him to achieve what he did. The irritation coming from the most acute excitability alone would not have been enough.

It is almost an axiom in the evaluation of human nature that in its greater operations, the entire nature must be in agreement. Undoubtedly, there was a thread of calculation within his impulses. No one can rise to become Lord Chancellor without having, at least during the lulls and intervals of his impulses, an extremely discerning and careful judgment of people, things, and opportunities. Yet, after all offsets and deductions, and without softening the unpleasant indications, there remained—and will continue to be admired for many years—an 'eager principle of disinterested action.'

Lord Brougham's intellectual powers were as fitted for the functions of a miscellaneous agitator as his moral character. The first of these, perhaps, is a singular faculty of conspicuous labour. In general, the work of agitation proceeds in this way: a conspicuous, fascinating popular orator is ever on the surface, ever ready with appropriate argument, making motions, attracting public attention; beneath and out of sight are innumerable workers and students, unfit for the public eye, getting up the facts, elaborating conclusions, supplying the conspicuous orator with the data on which he lives. There is a perpetual controversy, when the narrative of the agitation comes to be written, whether the merit of what is achieved belongs to the skilful advocate who makes a subtle use of what is provided for him, or the laborious inferiors and juniors who compose the brief and set in order the evidence. For all that comes before the public, Lord Brougham has a wonderful power: he can make motions, addresses, orations, when you wish and on what you wish. He is like a machine for moving amendments. He can keep at work any number of persons under him. Every agitation has a tendency to have an office; some league, some society, some body of labourers must work regularly at its details. Mr. Brougham was able to rush hither and thither through a hundred such kinds of men, and gather up the whole stock of the most recent information, the extreme decimals of the statistics and diffuse them immediately with eager comment to a listening world. This may not be, indeed is not, the strictest and most straining kind of labour; the anxious, wearing, verifying, self-imposed scrutiny of scattered and complicated details is a far more exhausting task; it is this which makes the eye dim and the face pale and the mind heavy. The excitement of a multifarious agitation will carry the energies through much; the last touches, and it is these which exhaust, need not be put on any one subject. Yet, after all deductions, such a career requires a quantity far surpassing all that most men have of life and verve and mind.

Lord Brougham's intellectual capacity, much like his moral character, was perfectly suited to the role of a multifaceted agitator. One of his most prominent qualities was perhaps his singular talent for "working in plain sight."

Generally, agitation is conducted as follows: first, a prominent, charismatic, and popular orator always stands on the main stage, constantly preparing appropriate arguments and submitting motions to capture public attention. Behind them are countless workers and students who remain out of the public eye, gathering facts, refining conclusions, and providing the data for the orator on stage to work with. When the history of an agitation is written, there is always a debate over whether the credit should go to the skilled lawyer who cleverly utilizes the provided materials, or to the diligent underlings and junior staff who draft the petitions and organize the evidence.

However, Lord Brougham displayed astonishing ability in every task that appeared before the public. He could submit motions, deliver speeches, and give lectures whenever he wished, on whatever subject he desired. He was like a machine for moving amendments. He could make any number of people working under him function effectively.

Any agitation tends to establish some kind of office. Some alliance, association, or labor group is necessary because the details must be worked on regularly. Lord Brougham could dash back and forth among hundreds of such people, collecting every stock of the latest information, even down to the smallest unit of statistics, and with enthusiastic commentary, immediately spread it throughout the world of his audience.

Admittedly, this kind of labor is not of the most rigorous or burdensome type. The kind of work that involves verifying and imposing upon oneself the rigorous scrutiny of scattered, complex details—while filled with anxiety and exhaustion—is far more draining. It is this type of labor that clouds the eyes, sallows the complexion, and weighs down the spirit. The excitement born from multifaceted agitation provides a great deal of energy. The final polish—and this is what truly wears a person out—does not need to be concentrated on a single subject.

Even so, taking all discounts into account, such a career requires an amount of life vitality and spirit far exceeding what most people possess.

Another advantage of Lord Brougham is his extreme readiness; what he can do, he can do at a moment's notice. He has always had this power. Lord Holland, in his Memoirs referring to transactions which took place many years ago, gives an illustration of it. The management of our press,' he is speaking of the question of the general election of 1807, fell into the hands of Mr. Brougham. With that active and able individual I had become acquainted through Mr. Allen in 1805. At the formation of Lord Grenville's ministry, he had written, at my suggestion, a pamphlet called the "State of the Nation." He subsequently accompanied Lord Rosslyn to Lisbon. His early connection with the Abolitionists had familiarised him with the means of circulating political papers, and given him some weight with those best qualified to co-operate in such an undertaking. His extensive knowledge, his extraordinary readiness, his assiduity and habits of composition, enabled him to correct some articles, and to furnish a prodigious number himself. With partial and scanty assistance from Mr. Allen, myself, and one or two more, he in the course of a few days filled every bookseller's shop with pamphlets-most London newspapers, and all country ones without exception, with paragraphs-and supplied a large portion of the boroughs throughout the kingdom with handbills adapted to the local interests of the candidates, and all tending to enforce the conduct, elucidate the measures, or expose the adversaries of the Whigs.'

Another of Lord Brougham's strengths is his astonishing readiness to respond. What he can do, he can accomplish immediately. He has always possessed this ability.

Lord Holland, in his memoirs recording events from many years ago, gives an example of this. In his discussion regarding the general election of 1807, he states: "The management of our press fell into the hands of Mr. Brougham. I had become acquainted with this active and capable individual through Mr. Allen in 1805. At the formation of Lord Grenville's ministry, he wrote a pamphlet called 'The State of the Nation' at my suggestion. Subsequently, he accompanied Lord Rosslyn to Lisbon. His early connection with the Abolitionists made him familiar with the means of circulating political documents, and gave him a certain influence among those best suited to cooperate in such an undertaking. His extensive knowledge, extraordinary readiness, assiduity, and writing ability enabled him to correct several articles and supply a prodigious number himself. With partial and scanty assistance from Mr. Allen, myself, and one or two others, he filled every bookstore with pamphlets within a few days, and provided articles to almost every London newspaper and every country newspaper without exception. Furthermore, he supplied a large portion of the boroughs throughout the kingdom with handbills tailored to the local interests of the candidates, all aimed at promoting the conduct of the Whigs, clarifying their policies, or exposing their adversaries."

Another power which was early remarked of Brougham, and which is as necessary as any to an important leader in great movements, is a skilful manipulation of men. Sir James Mackintosh noted in his Journal, on January 30, 1818: The address and insinuation of Brougham are so great, that nothing but the bad temper which he cannot always hide could hinder him from mastering everybody as he does Romilly. He leads others to his opinion; he generally appears at first to concur with theirs, and never more than half opposes it at once. This management is helped by an air of easy frankness that would lay suspicion itself asleep. He will place himself at the head of an opposition among whom he is unpopular; he will conquer the House of Commons, who hate, but now begin to fear him.' An observer of faces would fancy he noted in Lord Brougham this pliant astuteness marred by ill-temper. It has marked his career.

Another power that was noted early on about Lord Brougham, and which is as essential as any for an important leader in great movements, was his skill in manipulating men.

Sir James Mackintosh noted in his journal on January 30, 1818: "Brougham's tact and power of insinuation are so great that, were it not for the bad temper he cannot always hide, he would have mastered everyone just as he does Romilly. He leads others to his own opinion; he generally appears at first to agree with theirs, and never opposes it more than halfway at once. This maneuvering is aided by an air of easy frankness that would lull even suspicion itself to sleep. He will place himself at the head of an opposition among whom he is unpopular; he will conquer the House of Commons, who hate him but are now beginning to fear him."

An observer of faces might imagine they could detect in Lord Brougham this pliant astuteness, marred by his ill-temper. It has truly characterized his career.

Another essential quality in multifarious agitation is an extreme versatility. No one can deny Lord Brougham this. An apparently close observer has described him: Take the routine of a day, for instance. In his early life he has been known to attend, in his place in court, on circuit, at an early hour in the morning. After having successfully pleaded the cause of his client, he drives off to the hustings, and delivers, at different places, eloquent and spirited speeches to the electors. He then sits down in the retirement of his closet to pen an address to the Glasgow students, perhaps, or an elaborate article in the "Edinburgh Review." The active labours of the day are closed with preparation for the court business of the following morning; and then, in place of retiring to rest, as ordinary men would after such exertions, he spends the night in abstruse study, or in social intercourse with some friend from whom he has been long separated. Yet he would be seen, as early as eight on the following morning, actively engaged in the court, in defence of some unfortunate object of government persecution, astonishing the auditory, and his fellow-lawyers no less, with the freshness and power of his eloquence. A fair contrast with this history of a day, in early life, would be that of one at a more advanced period; say, in the year 1832. A watchful observer might see the new Lord Chancellor seated in the court over which he presided, from an early hour in the morning until the afternoon, listening to the arguments of counsel, and mastering the points of cases with a grasp of mind that enabled him to give those speedy and unembarrassed judgments that have so injured him with the profession. If he followed his course, he would see him, soon after the opening of the House of Lords, addressing their lordships on some intricate question of law, with an acuteness that drew down approbation even from his opponents; or, on some all-engrossing political topic, casting firebrands into the camp of the enemy, and awakening them from the complacent repose of conviction to the hot contests with more active and inquiring intellects. Then, in an hour or so, he might follow him to the Mechanics' Institution, and hear an able and stimulating discourse on education, admirably adapted to the peculiar capacity of his auditors; and towards ten, perhaps, at a Literary and Scientific Institution in Marylebone, the same Proteus-like intellect might be found expounding the intricacies of physical science with a never-tiring and elastic power. Yet, during all those multitudinous exertions, time would be found for the composition of a discourse on Natural Theology, that bears no marks of haste or excitement of mind, but presents as calm a face as though it had been the laborious production of a contemplative philosopher.' We may differ in our estimate of the quality of these various efforts; but no one can deny to him who was capable of them a great share in what Adam Smith mentioned as one of the most important facilities to the intellectual labourer-a quickness in 'changing his hand.'

In multifarious agitation, another essential quality is extreme versatility. In this regard, no one can deny Lord Brougham.

A close observer has described his daily routine: "Take the routine of a day, for instance. In his early life, he was known to attend court on circuit at an early hour in the morning. After successfully pleading his client's case, he would drive off to the hustings and deliver eloquent and spirited speeches to the electors at various locations. He would then sit down in the retirement of his study to pen an address to the Glasgow students, perhaps, or an elaborate article for the 'Edinburgh Review.' The active labors of the day would conclude with preparations for the next morning's court business; and then, instead of retiring to rest as ordinary men would after such exertions, he would spend the night in abstruse study or in social intercourse with a friend from whom he had long been separated. Yet, as early as eight the following morning, he would be seen actively engaged in court, defending some unfortunate object of government persecution, astonishing the audience—and his fellow lawyers no less—with the freshness and power of his eloquence."

A fair contrast to this history of a day in his early life would be one from a more advanced period, say, in the year 1832. A watchful observer might see the new Lord Chancellor seated in the court over which he presided, from an early hour in the morning until the afternoon, listening to the arguments of counsel and mastering the points of cases with a grasp of mind that enabled him to deliver those speedy and unembarrassed judgments that have so damaged his reputation within the profession.

If one were to follow his course, they would see him, soon after the opening of the House of Lords, addressing their lordships on some intricate question of law with an acuteness that drew approbation even from his opponents; or, on some all-engrossing political topic, casting firebrands into the enemy's camp, awakening them from the complacent repose of conviction to hot contests with more active and inquiring intellects. Then, in an hour or so, one might follow him to the Mechanics' Institution and hear an able and stimulating discourse on education, admirably adapted to the peculiar capacity of his auditors; and towards ten, perhaps, at a Literary and Scientific Institution in Marylebone, the same Proteus-like intellect might be found expounding the intricacies of physical science with a never-tiring and elastic power.

Yet, during all those multitudinous exertions, time would be found for the composition of a discourse on Natural Theology, which bears no marks of haste or mental excitement, but presents as calm a face as though it had been the laborious production of a contemplative philosopher.

We may differ in our estimate of the quality of these various efforts; but no one can deny that he who was capable of them possessed a great share of what Adam Smith mentioned as one of the most important facilities for the intellectual laborer—a quickness in 'changing his hand'.

Nor would any of these powers be sufficient, without that which is, in some sense, the principle of them all—an enterprising intellect. In the present day this is among the rarest of gifts. The speciality of pursuits is attended with a timidity of mind. Each subject is given up to men who cultivate it, and it only; who are familiar with its niceties and absorbed in its details. There is no one who dares to look at the whole. 'I have taken all knowledge to be my province,' said Lord Bacon. The notion, and still more the expression, of it seems ridiculous now.

None of the abilities Lord Brougham possessed, which I have described so far, would have been sufficient without an 'enterprising intellect,' which is, in a sense, the foundation of them all. In the present day, this can be called one of the rarest of talents.

The specialized pursuit of specific fields tends to be accompanied by a certain mental timidity. Each specialized field is left to those who delve deeply into it and devote themselves solely to that. They are well-versed in the subtleties of that field and immersed in its details. However, there is no one who dares to try to look at the whole.

Lord Bacon once said, 'I have taken all knowledge to be my province.' However, that way of thinking, and even more so the statement itself, sounds almost ridiculous now.

The survey of each plot in the world of knowledge is becoming more complete. We shall have a plan of each soon, on a seven-inch scale; but we are losing the picturesque pictures of the outside and surface of knowledge in the survey of its whole. We have the petty survey, as we say, but no chart, no globe of the entire world; no bold sketch of its obvious phenomena, as they strike the wayfarer and impress themselves on the imagination. The man of the speciality cannot describe the large outlines; he is too close upon the minutiæ; he does not know the relations of other knowledge, and no one else dares to infringe on his province-on the study of his life — for fear of committing errors in detail which he alone knows, and which he may expose. Lord Brougham has nothing of this cowardice. He is ready to give, in their boldest and most general form, the rough outlines of knowledge as they strike the man of the world, occupied in its affairs and familiar with its wishes. He is not cooped up in a single topic, and he has no dread of those who are. He may fall into error, but he exhibits a subject as it is seen by those who know other subjects, by a man who knows the world; he at least attempts an embracing conception of his topic, he makes you feel its connection with reality and affairs. He has exhibited this virtue at all stages of his career, but it was most valuable in his earlier time. There is no requisite so important as intellectual courage in one who seeks to improve all things in all ways.

Surveys of individual domains in the world of knowledge are becoming increasingly perfect. We will soon have detailed maps of each section. However, as we proceed with the meticulous survey of knowledge as a whole, we are losing the picturesque, overall image that once existed on the 'outside' and 'surface' of knowledge.

We possess what might be called 'petty surveys,' but we have neither a chart nor a globe of the entire world. We lack a bold sketch of the obvious phenomena that would catch the eye of a traveler and be deeply etched into their imagination. The specialist cannot describe the broad outlines. They are too close to the details and do not know the connections to other knowledge. And no one else dares to step into their domain—the subject of their life's study—for fear of committing detailed errors that only the specialist knows and could expose.

However, Lord Brougham had none of this cowardice. He was prepared to provide, in their boldest and most general form, the rough outlines of knowledge as perceived by someone engaged in worldly affairs and familiar with the desires of society. He was not cooped up in a single theme, nor did he fear those who were. He might make mistakes, but he presented a subject from the perspective of someone who knows other subjects—a man who knows the world. He at least attempted to grasp his theme comprehensively, making you feel how it connects to reality and current events.

He exhibited this virtue at every stage of his career, but it was most valuable during his earlier years. For one who strives to improve all things in all ways, there is no quality more important than intellectual courage.

His oratory also suits the character of the hundred-subject agitator well. It is rough-and-ready. It abounds in sarcasm, in vituperation, in aggression. It does not shrink from detail. It would batter any thing at any moment. We may think as we will on its merits as a work of art, but no one can deny its exact adaptation to a versatile and rushing agitator—to a Tribune of detail. The deficiencies of Brougham's character-in some cases they seem but the unfavourable aspects of its excellenceswere also fitted for his earlier career. The first of these, to say it in a sentence, is the want of a thinking intellect. A miscellaneous agitator must be ready to catch at anything, to attack everything, to blame anyone. This is not the life for a mind of anxious deliberation. The patient philosopher, who is cautious in his positions, dubious of his data, slow in his conclusions, must fail at once. He would be investigating while he should attack, inquiring while he should speak. He could not act upon a chance; the moment of action would be gone. A sanguine and speedy intellect, ready to acquire, by its very idea all but excludes the examining, scrupulous, hesitating intellect which reflects.

Lord Brougham's oratory also matched his character as an agitator who dealt with a hundred subjects remarkably well. It was unadorned and impromptu, filled with sarcasm, vituperation, and aggression. It did not shy away from entering into details. And it would batter anything at any moment. Regardless of what we think of its merits as a work of art, no one can deny that it was perfectly suited to a versatile and rushing agitator—a 'Tribune of detail.'

The shortcomings of Lord Brougham's character—which in some cases seem to be the flip side of his strengths—were also well-suited to his early career. To put it in a sentence, the first of these is the 'lack of a thinking intellect.'

A miscellaneous agitator must be ready to jump at anything, attack everything, and blame anyone. This is not a way of life suited to a mind that deliberates anxiously. A patient philosopher, who is cautious about their position, skeptical of their data, and slow to reach conclusions, would fail immediately. This is because they would be investigating when they should be attacking, and questioning when they should be speaking. They could not act on a sudden opportunity, and the moment for action would pass in an instant.

A sanguine and speedy intellect that seeks to acquire something quickly, by its very nature, almost excludes the examining, scrupulous, and hesitating intellect that reflects.

Nor would a man of very sensitive judgment endure such a career. An agitator must err by excess; a delicate nature errs by defects. There is a certain coarseness in the abusive breed. A Cleon should not feel failure. No man has ever praised very highly Lord Brougham's judgment; but to have exceedingly improved it would perhaps have impaired his earlier utility. You might as fitly employ some delicate lady as a rough-rider, as a man of a poisoning, refining judgment in the task of a grievance-stater.

A person with very sensitive judgment would never be able to handle a career like Lord Brougham's. An agitator often makes mistakes through excessive words and actions, whereas a person of delicate nature makes mistakes through insufficient action.

There is a certain coarseness that accompanies the breed of those who hurl abuse. A person like Cleon should not worry about failure. No one has ever praised Lord Brougham's judgment very highly, but if his judgment had been significantly improved, his early utility would likely have been impaired. It would be just as inappropriate to employ a delicate lady to break in a rough horse as it would be to appoint a man with a refined, overly-critical judgment to the task of stating grievances.

Harsh nerves, too, are no disadvantage. Perhaps they are essential. Very nice nerves would shrink from a scattered and jangled life. Three days out of six the sensitive frame would be jarred, the agitator would be useless. It is possible, indeed, to imagine that in a single noble cause—a cause that would light up the imagination, that would move the inner soul, a temperament the most delicate, a frame that is most poetic, might well be absorbingly interested. A little of such qualities may be essential. The apostle of a creed must have the nature to comprehend that creed; his fancy must take it in, his feelings realise it, his nature absorb it. To move the finer nature, you need the deeper nature. Perhaps even in a meaner cause, in a cause which should take a hold on the moving mob, sway the masses, rule the popular fancy, rough as the task of the mob-orator is, you require the delicate imagination. One finds some trace of it-still more of what is its natural accompaniment, a sweet nature-buried in the huge frame and coarse exterior of O'Connell. No unpoetic heart could touch the Irish people. Lord Brougham is prose itself. He was described, many years ago, as excelling all men in a knowledge of the course of exchange. He is,' continued the satirist,' apprised of the exact state of our exports and imports, and scarce a ship clears out its cargo at Liverpool or Hull but he has the notice of the bill of lading.' To explain the grievances of men of business needs no poetic nature. It scarcely needs the highest powers of invective. There is something nearly ridiculous in being the, 'Mirabeau of sums.'

Having tough nerves is also not a disadvantage. Perhaps it is an essential quality. Someone with very sensitive nerves would shrink from a scattered and chaotic life. Within three days out of six, a sensitive mind and body would be worn out, and the agitator would become useless.

Indeed, it is possible to imagine that for a single noble cause—a cause that lights up the imagination and moves the inner soul—the most delicate temperament and the most poetic frame could well be absorbingly interested. A little of such qualities might be essential. The apostle of a creed must possess the nature to deeply understand that creed; their imagination must take it in, their feelings must realize it, and their nature must absorb it. To move a finer nature, a deeper nature is required.

Perhaps even in a meaner cause—a cause that takes hold of a restless mob, sways the masses, and rules the popular imagination—a delicate imagination is required, even though the task of a mob orator is rough. One can find traces of this—and even more of its natural accompaniment, a sweet nature—buried within the huge frame and coarse exterior of O'Connell. No unpoetic heart could have touched the Irish people.

However, Lord Brougham was prose itself. Many years ago, he was described as excelling all men in his knowledge of exchange rates. The satirist continued, 'He is apprised of the exact state of our exports and imports, and scarce a ship clears out its cargo at Liverpool or Hull but he has the notice of the bill of lading.' Explaining the grievances of business people requires no poetic nature. It hardly even requires the highest powers of invective. There is something almost ridiculous about being the 'Mirabeau of sums.'

There is a last quality which is difficult to describe in the language of books, but which Lord Brougham excels in, and which has perhaps been of more value to him than all his other qualities put together. In the speech of ordinary men it is called devil;' persons instructed in the German language call it the demonic element.' What it is one can hardly express in a single sentence. It is most easily explained by physiognomy. There is a glare in some men's eyes which seems to say, 'Beware, I am dangerous; noli me tangere.' Lord Brougham's face has this. A mischievous excitability is the most obvious expression of it. If he were a horse, nobody would buy him; with that eye, no one could answer for his temper. Such men are often not really resolute, but they are not pleasant to be near in a difficulty. They have an aggressive eagerness which is formidable. They would kick against the pricks sooner than not kick at all. A little of the demon is excellent for an agitator.

Finally, there is one more quality, difficult to express in the language of books, but in which Lord Brougham excelled, and which was perhaps more valuable to him than any other. In common parlance, it is called 'devil,' and those familiar with German call it the 'demonic element.' It is almost impossible to express what it is in a single sentence. The easiest way to explain it is through physiognomy.

In the eyes of some men, there is a light that seems to say, 'Beware, I am dangerous. Do not touch me (noli me tangere).' Lord Brougham's face had this very light. Its most obvious manifestation is a mischievous excitability. If he were a horse, no one would buy him. With that look in his eyes, who could guarantee his temperament?

Such people are often not actually resolute, but it is never comfortable to be near them in difficult situations. They harbor a formidable, aggressive zeal. It is a temperament that would rather kick against thorns than not kick at all. For an agitator, a 'little devil' is extremely effective.

5. Career and Limitations as Lord Chancellor

His peculiar adaptation to his peculiar career raised Mr. Brougham, in a few years, to a position such as few men have ever obtained in England—such as no other man perhaps has attained by popular agitation. When he became member for Yorkshire, in 1830, he was a power in the country. The cause which he was advocating had grown of itself. The power of the middle-classes, especially of the commercial classes, had increased. Lord Eldon was retiring., Lord Sidmouth had retired. What we now call 'liberality' was coming into fashion. Men no longer regarded the half-feudal constitution as a form of thought.' Argument was at least thought fair. And this seems likely and natural. No one can wonder that the influence of men of business grew with the development of business, and they adopted the plain, straightforward, cautious creed, which we now know to be congenial to them. It is much more difficult to explain how reform became a passion. The state of the public mind during the crisis of the Reform Bill is one which those who cannot remember it cannot understand. The popular enthusiasm, the intense excitement, the rush of converts, the union of rectors and squires with those against whom they had respectively so long preached and sworn, the acclamation for the whole bill and nothing but the bill,' are become utterly strange. As the first French Assembly in a single night abolished, with public outcry, the essential abuses of the old régime, so our fathers at once, and with enthusiasm, abolished the close boroughs and the old representation, the lingering abuses of half-feudal England. The present Frenchmen are said not to comprehend August 4: we can hardly understand. the year '32. An apathy has fallen upon us. But we can. nevertheless, and without theorising, comprehend what an advantage such an enthusiasm was to the Liberals of that time. Most Whig ministries have been like Low-Church bishops. There is a feeling that the advocates of liberty ought scarcely to coerce; they have ruled, but they seem to deny the succession by which they ruled; they have been distrusted by a vague and half-conservative sentiment. In the tumult of 1832 all such feelings were carried away. Toryism was abolished with delight.

Lord Brougham's extraordinary adaptation to his own peculiar career allowed him to rise in a few years to a position that few men in England have ever attained—a position perhaps no other man could have reached through popular agitation. When he became a member for Yorkshire in 1830, he was already a firmly established power in the country.

The cause he was advocating, reform, had grown naturally. The power of the middle class, especially the commercial class, had increased; Lord Eldon was retiring, and Lord Sidmouth had already retired. What we now call 'liberalism' was beginning to come into fashion. People no longer viewed the half-feudal constitution as a 'form of thought,' and it began to be considered that arguments should at least be conducted fairly.

This will be accepted as a matter of course. No one is surprised that the influence of businessmen grew with the development of business, and that they adopted the straightforward, sincere, and cautious creed we now know to be suitable for them. However, it is much more difficult to explain how reform became a 'passion.' The state of public opinion during the crisis of the Reform Bill is difficult for those who did not experience it to understand. The popular enthusiasm, the intense excitement, the rush of converts, and the cheers of rectors and squires—who had long criticized and opposed each other—uniting to shout 'the whole bill and nothing but the bill' have become completely incomprehensible today.

Just as the first French National Assembly abolished the fundamental abuses of the old regime overnight with public outcry, our ancestors also suddenly and enthusiastically abolished the close boroughs, the old representative system, and the abuses that lingered in half-feudal England. It is said that modern Frenchmen cannot understand the events of August 4th, and we, too, can hardly understand the year 1832. Apathy has spread among us.

However, we can still understand, without theorizing, how advantageous such enthusiasm was for the Liberals of that time. Most Whig ministries were like Low-Church bishops. It was as if there was a feeling that advocates of liberty should hardly ever coerce; they ruled, but it was as if they denied the succession by which they ruled. They had been distrusted due to a vague, half-conservative sentiment. But in the tumult of 1832, all such feelings were blown away. Toryism was abolished with delight.

Mr. Brougham was among the first to share the advantage. There is a legend that in the first Whig ministry Lord Brougham was offered the post of Attorney-general, and that he only replied by disdainfully tearing up the letter containing the offer. Whether the anecdote be literally true or not, we cannot say. The first of the modern Whig ministries is in the post-historical period. We have not yet enough of contemporary evidence to be sure of its details: years must pass before the memoirwriters can accumulate. But in spirit the tale is doubtless accurate. Lord Grey did not wish to make Mr. Brougham Lord-Chancellor, and Mr. Brougham refused any inferior place as beneath his merits and his influence. The first Whig ministry were, indeed, in a position of some difficulty. The notion that a successful Opposition, as such, should take the reins of administration, has been much derided. 'Sir,' said a sceptic on this part of constitutional government, 'I would as soon choose for a new coachman the man who shied stones best at my old one!' And, without going the length of such critics, it must be allowed that the theory may produce odd results, when the persons summoned by their victory to assume office have been for many years in opposition. The party cannot have acquired official habits: the traditions of business cannot be known to them; their long course of opposition will have forced into leadership men hardly fitted for placid government. There is said to have been much of this feeling when Lord Grey's ministry were installed; it seemed as if that old favourite of the public,' Mr. Buckstone, were called to license plays. Grave Englishmen doubted the gravity of the administration. To make Lord Brougham Chancellor was, therefore, particularly inconvenient. He was too mobile; you could not fancy him droning. He had attacked Lord Eldon during many years of course; but did he know law? He was a most active person; would he sit still upon the woolsack? Of his inattention to his profession men circulated idle tales. 'Pity he hadn't known a little law, and then he would have known a little of everything,' was the remark of one who certainly only knows one thing. A more circumstantial person recounted that, when Brougham had been a pupil of Sir Nicholas Tindal, in the Temple, an uncle of his, having high hopes of his ability, asked the latter: 'I hope my nephew is giving himself up, soul and body, to his profession?' 'I do not know anything,' replied the distinct special-pleader, 'as to his soul, but his body is very seldom in my chambers.' Putting aside with contempt this surface of tales, it could not be denied that Mr. Brougham's practice at the bar-large and lucrative as it was-immense as was the energy required to maintain it at the same time with his other labours-had yet not shown him to possess the finest discretion, the most delicate tact of the advocate. Mr. Scarlett stole verdicts away from him. 'He strikes hard, sir,' said an attorney; but he strikes wrong.' His appointment as Chancellor scarcely strengthened the ministry of the time. Mr. Brougham was a hero; Lord Brougham was 'a necessity.' It was like Mr. Disraeli being Chancellor of the Exchequer.After the lapse of years, and with the actual facts before us, it is not difficult to see how far these anticipations have been falsified, and how far they have been justified by the result. All the notions as to Lord Brougham's ignorance of law may at once be discarded. A man of his general culture and vigorous faculties, with a great memory and much experience in forensic business, is no more likely to be ignorant of the essential bookwork of law than a tailor to be ignorant of scissors and seams. A man in business must be brought in contact with it; a man of mind cannot help grasping it. No one now questions that Lord Brougham was and is a lawyer of adequate attainments. But, at the same time, the judgments which supply the conclusive proof of this-the complete refutation of earlier cavillers-also would lead us to deny him the praise of an absolutely judicial intellect. Great judges may be divided into two classes-judges for the parties, and judges for the lawyers. The first class of these are men who always decide the particular case before them rightly, who have a nice insight into all that concerns it, are acute discerners of fact, accurate weighers of testimony, just discriminators of argument. Lord Lyndhurst is perhaps as great a judge in this kind as it is easy to fancy. If a wise man had a good cause, he would prefer its being tried before Lyndhurst to its being tried before anyone else. For the 'parties,' if they were to be considered in litigation, no more would be needed. By law-students, however, and for the profession, something more is desired. They like to find, in a They like to find, in a judicial decision, not only a correct adjustment of the particular dispute in court, but also an ample exposition of principles applicable to other disputes. The judge who is peculiarly exact in detecting the precise peculiarities of the case before him, will be very apt to decide only what is essential to, absolutely needed by, that case. His delicate discrimination will see that nothing else is necessary; he will not bestow conclusions on after-generations; he will let posterity decide its own controversies. A judge of different kind has a professional interest in what comes before him: it is in his eyes not a pitiful dispute whether A or B is entitled to a miserable field, but a glorious opportunity of deciding some legal controversy on which he has brooded for years, and on which he has a ready-made conclusion. Accordingly, his judgments are in the nature of essays. They are, in one sense, applicable to the matter in hand-they decide it correctly; but they go so much into the antecedents of the controversy— give so much of principle—that the particular facts seem a little lost the general doctrine fills the attention. No one can read a judgment of the late Lord Cottenham without feeling that it fixed the law on the matter in hand upon a defined basis for future years. Very likely he finds an authority for the case which has occurred in his practice; he does not stay to inquire whether the litigants appreciated the learning; perhaps they did not—possibly they would have preferred that a more exclusive prominence should be given to themselves. Now Lord Brougham has neither of these qualities; his intellect wants the piercing precision which distinguishes the judge the unerring judge of the case then present; and though competently learned, he has never been absorbed in his profession as a judge of principle' almost always must be. A man cannot provide a dogma suiting all the cases of the past, and deciding all the cases for the future, without years of patient reflection. His mind must be stored with doctrines. No one can fancy this of Lord Brougham. He is not to be thought of as giving still attention to technical tenets, years of brooding consideration to an abstract jurisprudence. Accordingly, though an adequate, and in his time,—for his speed cleared off arrears—a most useful judge, he cannot be said to attain the first rank in the judicial scale; and such we believe is the estimation of the world.

Lord Brougham was one of the first to seize this opportunity. Legend has it that when the first Whig ministry was formed, he was offered the post of Attorney General, but replied only by disdainfully tearing up the letter containing the offer. Whether this anecdote is literally true cannot be determined. The first of the modern Whig ministries belongs to an era awaiting historical verification. There is not yet enough contemporary evidence to be certain of its details; it will take years for memoirists to accumulate the material. However, in spirit, this story is undoubtedly accurate. Lord Grey did not want to make Lord Brougham Lord Chancellor, and Lord Brougham refused any lesser position, deeming it unworthy of his achievements and influence.

The first Whig ministry was, in fact, in some difficult circumstances. The idea that a successful opposition should take the reins of government as it is has been widely ridiculed. A skeptic regarding this part of constitutional government said, 'Sir, it is like choosing the man who threw stones best at my old coachman to be my new coachman!' And even if one does not go as far as such critics, it must be admitted that the theory can produce strange results when people who have been in opposition for many years are summoned to office by their victory. The party may not have acquired the habits of public office, and the traditions of business may be unknown to them. Long years of opposition likely pushed people into leadership positions who were hardly suited for placid government. It is said that there was much of this feeling when Lord Grey's ministry was installed; it was as if the public's former favorite, Mr. Buckstone, had been called to license plays. Grave Englishmen doubted the gravity of that administration.

Therefore, making Lord Brougham Lord Chancellor was particularly inconvenient. He was too active; one could not imagine him sitting there looking bored. He had attacked Lord Eldon for many years, but was he really well-versed in the law? He was a very energetic person; could he sit still on the woolsack? People spread idle rumors about his inattention to his duties. 'It is a pity that if he had known a little law, he would have known a little about everything' was the remark of someone who certainly only knew one thing. A person who told a more specific story recounted that when Brougham was a pupil of Sir Nicholas Tindal at the Temple, his uncle, who had high hopes for his ability, asked Tindal, 'Do you think my nephew is dedicating his soul and body to his profession?' 'I know nothing about his soul,' the clear-headed special pleader replied, 'but his body is very seldom in my chambers.'

Even if we contemptuously set aside such superficial stories, it could not be denied that Mr. Brougham's practice as a lawyer—no matter how large and lucrative it was, and no matter how much immense energy was required to maintain it alongside his other activities—did not show that he possessed the finest discretion or the most delicate tact of an advocate. Mr. Scarlett stole verdicts away from him. 'He strikes hard, sir,' one lawyer said, 'but he strikes wrong.' His appointment as Chancellor hardly strengthened the ministry of the time. Mr. Brougham was a hero; however, Lord Chancellor Brougham was 'a necessity.' It was like Mr. Disraeli becoming Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Years have passed, and looking at the actual facts, it is not difficult to see how far these predictions were wrong and how far they were justified by the results. The idea of Lord Brougham's ignorance of the law can be discarded immediately. It is impossible that a man of his general education and powerful talent, with a great memory and much experience in court business, would not know the essential professional knowledge of the law, any more than a tailor would not know scissors and seams. A person involved in business will come into contact with it, and a person of intellect cannot help but grasp it. No one now questions that Lord Brougham was a lawyer of sufficient learning.

However, at the same time, the judgments that conclusively prove this—the complete refutation of earlier dissenters—would not lead us to grant him the praise of an 'absolute judicial intellect.'

Great judges are divided into two classes: one is the 'judge for the parties,' and the other is the 'judge for the lawyers.'

The former class of judges are people who always judge the specific case before them correctly, have keen insight into everything involved, see through facts sharply, accurately weigh testimony, and fairly distinguish arguments. Lord Lyndhurst is perhaps as great a figure as one can imagine as this type of judge. If a wise person had a legitimate lawsuit, they would prefer it to be tried before Lord Lyndhurst than anyone else. If the 'parties' are to be considered in litigation, nothing more is needed.

However, for law students and professionals, something more is sought. They prefer to find in a judicial decision not only the correct resolution of the specific dispute in court, but also a sufficient explanation of principles applicable to other disputes. A judge who is particularly strict in detecting the precise peculiarities of the case before him will be very inclined to decide only what is essential and absolutely necessary for that case. His delicate discernment will see that nothing else is needed, and he will not give conclusions to future generations. He will let posterity decide its own controversies.

A judge of a different kind has a professional interest in what comes before him. To his eyes, it is not a pitiful dispute over whether A or B has a trivial land right, but a glorious opportunity to decide a legal controversy that he has pondered for many years and on which he has established conclusions. Therefore, his judgments take on the nature of essays. They are, in a sense, applicable to the problem at hand—deciding it correctly. However, because they delve too deeply into the preceding background of the controversy and provide too many principles, the specific facts are somewhat overshadowed, and general doctrines take center stage. Anyone who has read the judgments of the late Lord Cottenham cannot help but feel that they fixed the law on the matter at hand onto a clear foundation for the future. Perhaps he finds a precedent for a case that occurred in his own practice. He does not pause to see if the litigants understood his learning. They probably did not—perhaps they would have preferred to be given more exclusive importance.

Now, Lord Brougham possessed neither of these qualities. His intellect lacked the sharp precision that characterizes a judge who judges the case at hand without error. And, despite being sufficiently learned, he had never been immersed in his profession as a 'judge of principles' almost always is. He could not provide doctrines that fit all past cases and decide all future cases without many years of patient contemplation. His mind needed to be filled with doctrine, but no one can imagine this of Lord Brougham. It is inconceivable that he would quietly pay attention to technical doctrine and ponder abstract jurisprudence for many years. Therefore, while he was competent and, in his own time—because his speed cleared away the backlog of work—a very useful judge, it cannot be said that he achieved a first-class status on the judicial scale. And this is perhaps the public's assessment.

Of the political duties of the Chancellor, and Lord Brougham's performance of them, it is not easy to speak. Many of them are necessarily secret, and the history of those times cannot yet be written. That he showed wonderful energy, zeal, and power, no one can doubt; nor that the essential defects of his character soon showed him but little qualified for an administrator. In the year 1802, Francis Horner anticipated, that if an active career were opened to Brougham, he would show a want of prudence and moderation; and it is curious to read, as a commentary on it, what the Duke of Wellington wrote to Sir R. Peel, on the 15th November, 1835. His Majesty mentioned that Lord Brougham had threatened he would not put the great seal to a commission to prorogue the parliament; and afterwards correcting himself: 'It appears that Lord Brougham did not make the threat that he would not prorogue the parliament, but that Lord Melbourne said he was in such a state of excitement that he might take that course.' We must wait for Lord Brougham's memoirs before we know the exact history of that time; but all the glimpses we get of it show the same picture of wildness and eccentricity.

It is not easy to speak of the political duties of the Lord Chancellor and how Lord Brougham performed them. Many of them are necessarily shrouded in secrecy, and the history of those times has not yet been fully written. There is no doubt that he showed amazing energy, zeal, and power, but at the same time, it is also true that the inherent flaws in his character soon exposed how ill-suited he was as an administrator.

In 1802, Francis Horner predicted that if Lord Brougham were to pursue an active career, he would show a 'lack of prudence and moderation.' And as an interesting comment on that prediction, one can read a letter written by the Duke of Wellington to Sir R. (Robert) Peel on November 15, 1835. His Majesty stated that Lord Brougham 'threatened not to affix the Great Seal to a commission to prorogue Parliament.' But later, the Duke of Wellington corrected himself, writing, 'It appears that Lord Brougham did not threaten not to prorogue Parliament, but that Lord Melbourne said he was in such a state of excitement that he might choose that path.'

We must wait for Lord Brougham's memoirs to know the exact history of that era. However, everything glimpsed from it shows the same aspect of his wildness and eccentricity.

The times the most nearly revolutionary times which England has long seen—were indeed likely to try an excitable temperament to the utmost; but at the same time they afforded scope to a brilliant manager of men, which only such critical momentary conjectures can do. Mr. Roebuck gives a curious instance of this :-

The times, which were the closest to revolution that England had experienced in a long time, were indeed such as to drive an excitable temperament to the limit. But at the same time, they provided a stage for a brilliant person who could skillfully manipulate people, which only such critical, momentary situations can offer. Mr. Roebuck gives an interesting example of this.

The necessity of a dissolution had long been foreseen, and decided on by the ministers, but the King had not yet been persuaded to consent to so bold a measure; and now the two chiefs of the administration were about to intrude themselves into the royal closet, not only to advise and ask for a dissolution, but to request the king on the sudden—on this very day, and within a few hours—to go down and put an end to his parliament in the midst of the session, and with all the ordinary business of the session yet unfinished. The bolder mind of the Chancellor took the lead, and Lord Grey anxiously solicited him manage the King on the occasion. So soon as they were admitted the Chancellor, with some care and circumlocution, propounded to the King the object of the interview they had sought. The startled monarch no sooner understood the drift of the Chancellor's somewhat periphrastic statement, then he exclaimed in wonder and amazement against the very idea of such a proceeding. 'How is it possible, my lords, that I can after this fashion repay the kindness of parliament to the queen and myself? They have just granted me a most liberal civil-list, and to the queen a splendid annuity in case she survives me.' The Chancellor confessed that they had, as regarded his Majesty, been a liberal and wise parliament, but said that nevertheless their further existence was incompatible with the peace and safety of the kingdom. Both he and Lord Grey then strenuously insisted upon the absolute necessity of their request, and gave his Majesty to understand that this advice was by his ministers unanimously resolved on; and that they felt themselves unable to conduct the affairs of the country in the present condition of the parliament. This last statement made the King feel that a general resignation would be the consequence of a further refusal. Of this, in spite of his secret wishes, he was at the moment really afraid, and therefore he, by employing petty excuses, and suggesting small and temporary difficulties, soon began to show that he was about to yield. 'But, my lords, nothing is prepared; the great officers of state are not summoned.' 'Pardon me, sir,' said the Chancellor, bowing with profound apparent humility, we have taken the great liberty of giving them to understand that your Majesty commanded their attendance at the proper hour.' 'But, my lords, the crown and the robes, and other things needed, are not prepared.' 'Again I most humbly entreat your Majesty's pardon for my boldness,' said the Chancellor; they are all prepared and ready -the proper officers being desired to attend in proper form and time.' 'But, my lords,' said the King, reiterating the form in which he put his objection, you know the thing is wholly impossible; the guards, the troops, have had no orders, and cannot be ready in time.' This objection was in reality the most formidable one. The orders to the troops on such occasions emanate always directly from the King, and no person but the King can in truth command them for such service; and as the Prime Minister and daring Chancellor well knew the nature of royal susceptibility on such matters, they were in no slight degree doubtful and anxious as to the result. The Chancellor therefore, with some real hesitation, began again as before,' Pardon me, sir, we know how bold the step is that, presuming on your great goodness, and your anxious desire for the safety of your kingdom, and happiness of your people, we have presumed to take. I have given orders, and the troops are ready.' The King started in serious anger, flamed red in the face, and burst forth with, 'What, my lords, have you dared to act thus? Such a thing was never heard of. You, my Lord Chancellor, ought to know that such an act is treason, high treason, my lord.' 'Yes, sir,' said the Chancellor, I do know it; and nothing but my thorough knowledge of your Majesty's goodness, of your paternal anxiety for the good of your people, and my own solemn belief that the safety of the state depends upon this day's proceedings, could have emboldened me to the performance of so unusual, and, in ordinary circumstances, so improper a proceeding. In all humility I submit myself to your Majesty, and am ready in my own person to bear all the blame, and receive all the punishment which your Majesty may deem needful; but I again entreat your Majesty to listen to us and to follow our counsel, and as you value the security of your crown and the peace of your realms, to yield to our most earnest solicitations.' After some further expostulations by both his ministers, the King cooled down and consented. Having consented, he became anxious that everything should be done in the proper manner, and gave minute directions respecting the ceremonial. The speech to be spoken by him at the prorogation was ready prepared and in the Chancellor's pocket. To this he agreed, desired that everybody might punctually attend, and dismissed his ministers for the moment with something between a menace and a joke upon the audacity of their proceeding.

The dissolution of Parliament had long been foreseen and was already a decided matter among the ministers, but the King had not yet been persuaded to consent to such a bold measure. And now, the two chiefs of the administration were about to intrude into the King's private room. Their purpose was not just to advise and request a dissolution; it was to suddenly—on this very day, within a few hours—demand that the King go to Parliament and end it in the midst of the session, with the ordinary business still unfinished.

The Lord Chancellor, possessing a bolder temperament, took the lead, and Lord Grey anxiously pleaded with him to persuade the King on this matter. As soon as they were granted an audience, the Lord Chancellor, with careful and circumlocutory phrasing, proposed the purpose of the meeting they had sought to the King. The startled King, upon understanding the intent of the Chancellor's somewhat roundabout explanation, exclaimed with surprise and bewilderment at the very idea of such a procedure. The King said, 'My lords, how could I repay the kindness that Parliament has shown to the Queen and myself in this way? They have just granted me a most liberal civil list, and a wonderful annuity to the Queen in the event that she outlives me.'

The Lord Chancellor (Lord Brougham) acknowledged that Parliament had indeed been liberal and wise toward His Majesty, but stated that their continued existence was incompatible with the peace and safety of the kingdom. Both the Lord Chancellor and Lord Grey strongly insisted on the absolute necessity of their request, and made the King understand that this advice had been unanimously decided upon by the Cabinet, and that they felt unable to conduct state affairs in the current state of Parliament. Because of this last statement, the King felt that a further refusal would lead to the resignation of the entire Cabinet. Despite his inner wishes, the King was truly afraid of this at that moment, and therefore, by using petty excuses and suggesting small, temporary difficulties, he soon began to show that he was about to yield.

'But, my lords, nothing is prepared. The great ministers of state have not been summoned.' 'Pardon me, Your Majesty,' the Lord Chancellor said, bowing deeply and respectfully, 'we have taken the great liberty of informing them that Your Majesty commanded their attendance at the proper hour.' 'But, my lords, the crown, the robes, and other necessary things are not prepared.' 'I again humbly ask for Your Majesty's pardon for my boldness,' the Lord Chancellor said. 'They are all prepared and ready. The appropriate officials have already been instructed to attend in the proper form and at the proper time.' 'But, my lords,' the King repeated, in a tone of raising an objection, 'that is completely impossible. The guards and soldiers have received no orders and cannot possibly be ready in time.'

This objection was, in reality, the most troublesome one. Orders to soldiers in such cases always emanate directly from the King, and no one but the King can truly command them for such a mission. And because the Prime Minister (Lord Grey) and the bold Lord Chancellor (Lord Brougham) knew well the nature of royal sensitivity regarding such matters, they were filled with unusual doubt and anxiety about the result.

Therefore, the Lord Chancellor, with some genuine hesitation, began to speak again as before: 'Pardon me, Your Majesty. We are aware that we have dared to take such a bold step, relying on Your Majesty's great mercy and your earnest desire for the safety of the kingdom and the happiness of the people. I have issued the orders, and the soldiers are ready.'

The King jumped up, his face turning bright red from serious anger, and shouted, 'What, my lords, how dare you do such a thing? This is unprecedented! Lord Chancellor, you should know that such an act is treason, high treason!'

'Yes, Your Majesty,' the Lord Chancellor said. 'I am aware of it. And other than my deep recognition of Your Majesty's goodness, your paternal concern for the happiness of your subjects, and my own solemn belief that the safety of the state depends on today's proceedings, nothing could have given me the courage to perform such an unusual and, in ordinary circumstances, improper procedure. I humbly submit myself to Your Majesty, and I am prepared to bear all the blame and receive all the punishment that Your Majesty may deem necessary. However, I ask Your Majesty once again: please listen to our words and follow our advice. And if you value the security of your crown and the peace of the kingdom, please accept our most earnest request.'

After further argument from both ministers, the King cooled down and consented. Having consented, the King became anxious that everything be done in the proper manner and gave detailed instructions regarding the ceremony. The speech to be delivered by the King at the prorogation was already prepared and in the Lord Chancellor's pocket. He agreed to this, wished for everyone to attend on time, and dismissed the ministers for the moment with words that were somewhere between a threat and a joke about the audacity of their procedure.

Original Note: The editors of Sir R. Peel's Memoirs have left this name in blank; but if they had wished it not to be known, they should have suppressed the passage. Everybody knows who held the great seal at that time. (Translator's Note: This refers to Lord Chancellor Brougham.)

6. Evaluation of the Post-Resignation Period of the Lord Chancellor and His Eloquence and Legal Reform

With the fall of Lord Melbourne's first administration terminated Lord Brougham's administrative career. As everyone knows, on the defeat of Sir Robert Peel and the subsequent return of the Whigs to power, he was not invited to resume office. Since that time-for now more than twenty yearshe has had to lead the life, in general the most trying to political reputation, perhaps to real character, and more than any other alien to the character of his mind and the tendencies of his nature. We have had many recent instances how difficult it is to give what is variously termed an 'independent support,' and a 'friendly opposition,' to a Government of which you approve the general tendencies, but are inclined to criticise the particular measures. The Peelites and Lord John Russell have for several years been in general in this position, and generally with a want of popular sympathy. As they agree with the Government in principle, they cannot take, by way of objection, what the country considers broad points; their suggestions of detail seem petty and trivial to others-the public hardly think of such things; but men who have long considered a subject, who have definite ideas and organised plans, can scarcely help feeling an eager interest in the smallest minutia of the mode of dealing with it. Sometimes they discern a real importance undiscerned by those less attentive; more commonly, perhaps, they fancy there is something peculiarly felicitous in contrivances settled by themselves and congenial to their habits or their notions. Lord Brougham was in a position to feel this peculiarly. The various ideas which he had struggled for in earlier life were successful one by one; the hundred reforms he suggested were carried; the hundred abuses he had denounced were abolished. The world which was, was changed to the world which is ; but it was not changed by him. That he should have been favourably disposed to the existing liberal administrations was not likely; the separation was too recent, perhaps too abrupt. An eager and excitable disposition is little likely to excel in the measured sentences, the chosen moments, the polished calm of the frondeur. Accordingly, the life of Brougham for many years has not heen favourable to his fame. On particular occasions, as on the abolition of Negro apprenticeship, he might attain something of his former power. But, in general, his position has been that of the agitator whose measure is being substantially carried, yet with differences of detail aggravating to his temper and annoying to his imagination. Mr. Cobden described Sir Robert Peel's mode of repealing the corn-laws with the microscopic sliding-scale for three years, as seventeen-and-sixpence on the demand of the Anti-corn-law League, and good security for the other half-crown. Yet excitable men at that very moment clamoured for the last half-crown; they could not bear the modification, the minute difference from that on which they had set their hearts. We must remember this in relation to what is now most familiar to us in the life of Lord Brougham. To a man so active, to be put out of action is a pain which few can appreciate; that other men should enter into your labours is not pleasant; that they should be Canningites does not make it any better. We have witnessed many escapades of Lord Brougham; we perhaps hardly know his temptations and his vexations.

With the fall of Lord Melbourne's first cabinet, Lord Brougham's career as an administrator came to an end. As you know, when the Whigs returned to power after the defeat of Sir Robert Peel, he was not invited to take a key position again. From then until now, for over twenty years, he has been forced to live the most grueling life for his political reputation, and perhaps for his true character as a human being. It was something that was, above all else, incompatible with his spirituality and his natural temperament.

We have seen many examples of this in recent years. That is to say, how difficult it is to take a position of 'independent support' or 'friendly opposition' toward a government whose general direction you can agree with, but whose individual policies you are critical of. The Peelites and Lord John Russell were generally in this position for several years, but in most cases, they were unable to gain the sympathy of the public. Because they agree with the government in principle, they cannot raise the major points that the country considers important as reasons for opposition. Their suggestions regarding details seem petty and trivial to others. The public has almost no interest in such things. However, people who have thought deeply about a subject for many years and have clear ideas and concrete plans cannot help but feel a passionate interest in even the smallest details of how to deal with the problem. Sometimes they discern a true importance that is invisible to those who do not pay attention, and in many cases, they may even delude themselves into thinking that there is some special ingenuity in the contrivances they have devised themselves, which suit their own habits and ideas.

Lord Brougham was in a position to feel this emotion strongly. The various ideas he struggled for in his youth were successful one by one, the many reforms he proposed were realized, and many of the abuses he denounced were abolished. The world that was has changed into the world that is. However, it was not changed directly by his own hands. It is unlikely that he was favorably disposed toward the existing liberal administration. Perhaps the break was too recent and too sudden. An eager and excitable temperament is rarely likely to excel in the measured sentences, chosen words, and polished calmness of a frondeur (anti-government critic).

Therefore, Lord Brougham's long life was by no means favorable to his reputation. On specific occasions, such as the abolition of the Negro apprenticeship system, he was able to regain some of his former power. However, in general, his position was that of an 'agitator of dissatisfaction,' where, even though the policies he advocated were substantially being carried out, the differences in detail worsened his temperament and irritated his imagination. Mr. Cobden described the three-year microscopic sliding scale used by Sir Robert Peel when repealing the Corn Laws as 'paying seventeen shillings and sixpence (about 87.5%) of the Anti-Corn Law League's demand, while settling the remaining half-crown (about 12.5%) with good collateral.' However, excitable people clamored for that last half-crown at that very moment. They could not bear the changes, the minute differences from what they had set their hearts on.

We must keep this in mind in relation to what is most familiar to us in Lord Brougham's life. For a man so active, being removed from action is a pain that few can appreciate. It is not pleasant for other men to take over your labors, and it is even less so if they are Canningites, who were once your enemies. We have witnessed many of Lord Brougham's rash actions, but we likely know almost nothing of his temptations and vexations.

Such is the bare outline of the career of Lord Brougham. A life of early, broken, various agitation; a short interval of ordinary administration-occurring, however, at a time singularly extraordinary; a long old age secluded from the actual conduct of affairs, and driven to distinguish itself by miscellaneous objection and diversified sarcasm. Singular stories of eccentricity and excitement, even of something more than either of these, darken these latter years. On these we must not dwell. There are many aspects of Brougham's varied character, a few of which we should notice by themselves.

This is merely an outline of Lord Brougham's career. It was a life spent in fragmented and diverse agitation from his youth. Then came a short period as an ordinary administrator, which occurred during an extraordinary time. After that, it was a long old age, forced to distinguish itself solely through the expression of miscellaneous objections and diverse sarcasm, isolated from the actual conduct of government affairs.

Strange stories regarding his eccentricities and excitement, and even things beyond that, color his later years in darkness. I will not delve into these details. Lord Brougham's multifaceted character has many aspects, some of which should be noted separately.

The most connected with his political life is his career as a law reformer. We have spoken of his early labours on this subject; we have said that few men who have devoted themselves to nothing else have exposed so many abuses, propounded so many remedies; that one of his early motions is a schedule of half, and much more than half, that has been, or will be, done upon a large portion of the subject. But here praise must end. The completed, elaborated reforms by which Lord Brougham will be known to posterity are few, are nothing in comparison with his power, his industry, and his opportunities. There is nothing, perhaps, for which he is so ill qualified. The bold vehement man who exposes an abuse has rarely the skilful, painful, dissecting power which expunges it. Lord Brougham once made a speech on conveyancing. 'I should not,' said, on the next day, an eminent professor of that art, 'like him to draw a deed relating to my property.' A law reformer, in order that his work may be perfect, requires the conveyancing abilities. He must be able to bear in mind the whole topic-to draw out what is necessary of it on paper to see what is necessary to discriminate the rights of individuals to distinguish, with even metaphysical nicety, the advantage he would keep from the abuse he would destroy. He must elaborate enacting clauses which will work in the complicated future, repealing clauses which will not interfere with the complicated machinery of the past. His mind must be the mind of a codifier. A rushing man, like Lord Brougham, cannot hope to have this. A still and patient man, in quiet chambers, apt in niceties, anxious by temperament, precise in habit, putting the last extreme of perfection on whatever he may attempt, is the man for the employment. You must not expect this quiet precision from an agitator. There is the same difference as that between the hard-striking pugilist and the delicate amputating operator.

What is most closely linked to Lord Brougham's political life is his career as a law reformer. We have already touched upon his early efforts on this subject. We stated that few people, even those who devoted themselves to nothing else, exposed as many abuses or proposed as many corrective measures as he did. We also mentioned that one of his early motions covered more than half of the reforms that have been or will be realized in a large portion of this subject.

However, the praise must end here. The completed and refined reforms for which Lord Brougham will be remembered by posterity are very few, and they are insignificant compared to his power, his diligence, and his opportunities. Perhaps there is no one less suited for this field than he is.

Lord Brougham once gave a speech on the law regarding conveyancing. The next day, a prominent professor in that field reportedly said, 'I would not want him to draft a deed concerning my property.'

For a law reformer's work to be perfect, he requires the very ability to perform conveyancing. He must be able to keep the entire subject in mind, accurately write down what is necessary on paper, discern what is needed to distinguish individual rights, and be able to distinguish, with metaphysical precision, the advantages he wishes to maintain from the abuses he wishes to destroy. He must elaborately create 'enacting clauses' that will function in a complicated future and 'repealing clauses' that will not interfere with the complicated mechanisms of the past. His mind must be the mind of a codifier.

One cannot expect a rushing man like Lord Brougham to have this. The person suited for this work is someone who is quiet and patient, skilled in details in a quiet room, temperamentally anxious, precise in habit, and who seeks the ultimate perfection in everything he attempts. One must not expect such quiet and precise work from an agitator. It is the same difference as that between a hard-hitting boxer and a surgeon performing delicate amputation.

The same want of repose has repaired his excellence in a pursuit to which, at first sight, it seems much less needful—– the art of oratory. We are apt to forget that oratory is an imaginative art. From our habits of business, the name of rhetoric has fallen into disrepute our greatest artists strive anxiously to conceal their perfection in it; they wish their address in statement to be such, that the effect seems to be produced by that which is stated, and not by the manner in which it is stated. But not the less on that account is there a real exercise of the imagination in conceiving of the events of a long history, in putting them forward in skilful narration, each fact seeming by nature to fall into its place, all the details appearing exactly where they should—a group, to borrow a metaphor from another art, collecting itself from straggling and desultory materials. Still more evidently is the imagination requisite in expressing deep emotions, even common emotions, or in describing noble objects. Now, it seems to be a law of the imagination that it only works in a mind of stillness. The noise and crush of life jar it. 'No man, it has been said, can say, I will compose poetry:'

Likewise, a 'lack of calmness' impaired Lord Brougham's excellence in the field of oratory, which at first glance seems much less necessary. We tend to forget that oratory is an art of imagination.

Due to modern business habits, the term 'rhetoric' has fallen into disrepute, and our greatest orators strive hard to hide their perfect technique. They wish to make it appear that the effect is produced by the content itself, rather than by their way of speaking. However, that does not mean there is no real exercise of imagination in conceiving the events of a long history and presenting them in a skillful narrative. Each fact seems to naturally fall into its place, and all details appear exactly where they should—like creating a single orderly 'group' from scattered and disorganized materials, to borrow a metaphor from another art.

What is even more obvious is that imagination is indispensable when expressing deep emotions, or even common emotions, or when describing noble objects. Now, there seems to be a law that imagination only works in a still mind. The noise and bustle of life jar it. That is why it is said, 'No man can say, I will compose poetry.'

he must wait until—from a brooding, half-desultory inaction—poetry may arise, like a gentle mist, delicately and of itself. I waited for the train at Coventry; I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge To watch the three tall spires; and there I shaped The city's legend into this. Lord Brougham would not have waited so. He would have rushed up into the town; he would have suggested an improvement, talked the science of the bridge, explained its history to the natives. The quiet race would think twenty people had been there. And of course, in some ways this is admirable; such life and force are rare; even the 'grooms and porters' would not be insensible to such an aggressive intelligenceso much knocking mind, But, in the meantime, no lightlytouched picture of old story would have arisen an his imagination. The city's legend would have been thrust out: the fairy frostwork' of the fancy would have been struck away: there would have been talk on the schooling of the porter's eldest boy. The rarity of great political oratory arises in a great measure from this circumstance. Only those engaged in the jar of life have the material for it; only those withdrawn into a brooding imagination have the faculty for it. M. de Lamartine has drawn a striking picture of one who had the opportunity of action and the dangerous faculty of leisure: Vergniaud s'enivrait dans cette vie d'artiste, de musique, de déclamation et de plaisirs; il se pressait de jouir de sa jeunesse, comme s'il eût le pressentiment qu'elle serait sitôt cueillie. Ses habitudes étaient méditatives et paresseuses. Il se levait au milieu du jour; il écrivait peu et sur des feuilles éparses: il appuyait le papier sur ses genoux comme un homme pressé qui se dispute le tempts; il composait ses discours lentement dans ses rêveries et les retenait à l'aide de notes dans sa mémoire; il polissait son éloquence à loisir, comme le soldat polit son arme au repos.' This is not the picture of one who is to attain eminence in stirring and combative time. Harsher men prevailed; a mournful fate swallowed up Vergniaud's delicate fancies. He died, because he was idle; but he was great, because he was idle. Idleness with such minds is only the name for the passive enjoyment of a justly-moving imagination.

Poetry waits for the moment when, from the midst of contemplation and a half-aimless idleness, it rises like a gentle mist, delicately and of its own accord.

There is a passage in Tennyson's poetry like this:
“I waited for the train at Coventry,
I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge,
To watch the three tall spires; and there I shaped,
The city's legend into this.”

Lord Brougham would not have waited like that. He would have rushed up to the town, proposed improvements, lectured on the science of the bridge, and explained its history to the locals. To the gentle folk, it would have seemed as if twenty people were there instead of one. And of course, in a sense, this is wonderful. Such vitality and power are rare, and even those 'grooms and porters' could not have been insensitive to such an aggressive intelligence—a spirit that was incessantly at work. But on the other hand, the scene that was lightly touched upon in the old story would never have risen in his imagination. The city's legend would have been pushed aside, the 'fairy frostwork' of imagination would have been shattered, and the conversation would surely have turned to the schooling of the porter's eldest son.

The reason why great political eloquence is rare is largely due to this situation. Only those caught in the friction of life possess the material, and only those who have withdrawn into a contemplative imagination possess the ability.

M. de Lamartine provides an impressive description of Vergniaud, a man who possessed both the opportunity for action and the capacity for 'dangerous leisure': 'Vergniaud lived a life like an artist, intoxicated by music, reading, and pleasure. He was in a hurry to enjoy his youth, as if he had a premonition that it would soon be plucked away. His habits were meditative and idle. He would wake up in the middle of the day, write very little, jotting things down on scattered scraps of paper, with the paper on his knees like a man in a hurry, racing against time. He would compose his speeches slowly in his daydreams, using notes to keep them in his memory. He polished his eloquence in his leisure, just as a soldier polishes his weapons during a rest.'

This is not the figure of a man who makes a name for himself in turbulent, combative times. Harder men gained the upper hand, and a sad fate swallowed up Vergniaud's delicate fantasies. He died because he was idle, but it was precisely because he was idle that he was great. For such a spirit, 'idleness' is merely another name for passively enjoying a properly functioning imagination.

We should only weary our readers with a repetition of what has been said a hundred times already, if we tried to explain that Lord Brougham has nothing of this. His merit is, that he was never idle in his life. He must not complain if he has the disadvantage of it also. That he was a most effective speaker in his great time, is of course undoubted. His power of sarcasm, his amazing readiness, his energetic vigour of language, made him, if not a very persuasive, at least a most formidable orator. His endless animation must tell even to excess upon his audience. But he has not acted wisely for his fame in publishing his speeches. They have the most unpardonable of all faults—the fault of dulness. It is scarcely possible to read them. Doubtless, at the time their influence was considerable; they may even have been pleasant, as you like to watch the play of a vicious horse; but now, removed from the hearing of the speaker's voice—out of the way of the motions of his face and the glare of his eye—even their evil-speaking loses its attractiveness. The sarcasm seems blunt—the denunciation heavy. They are crowded with a detail which may have been, though acute observers say it was not, attractive at the time, but which no one can endure now. Not only do you feel that you are bored, but you are not sure that you are instructed. An agitator's detail is scarcely to be trusted. His facts may be right, but you must turn historian in order to test them; you must lead a life of state-papers and old letters to know if they are true. It is perhaps possible for the imagination of man to give an interest to any considerable action of human life. A firmly-drawing hand may conduct us through the narration— an enhancing touch enliven the details; but, to achieved this with contested facts in a combative life, is among the rarest operations of a rare power. The imagination has few tasks so difficult. To Lord Brougham, least of all, has it been possible to attract men by the business detail and cumbrous aggressions of the last age. His tone is too harsh. He has shattered his contemporaries, but he will not charm posterity.

If one were to try to explain that Lord Brougham lacks 'tranquility,' it would only weary the reader with a repetition of what has already been said a hundred times. His merit lies in the fact that he was never idle for a single moment in his life. He should not complain if there were disadvantages that came with it.

That he was the most effective orator in his prime is, of course, beyond doubt. The sharpness of his sarcasm, his amazing readiness, and the energy of his powerful language made him, if not a very persuasive person, at least the most formidable of debaters. His constant vitality must have influenced his audience even to excess.

However, he did not act wisely for his own fame by publishing his speeches. They possess the most unpardonable of all faults—the fault of being dull. It is almost impossible to read them. Certainly, their influence at the time was considerable. They might even have been pleasant to listen to, like watching the play of a vicious horse. But now, unable to hear the speaker's voice or see the movements of his face and the glare in his eyes, even their vitriol loses its charm. The sarcasm feels blunt, and the denunciations ring heavy. They are overflowing with details that might have been attractive at the time (though acute observers say they were not), but which no one can endure now. The reader not only feels bored but is not even sure if they have learned anything.

The details presented by an agitator are hardly reliable. His facts may be correct, but to verify them, one would have to become a historian. To know if they are true, one would need to lead a life surrounded by state papers and ancient documents.

It is perhaps possible for human imagination to give interest to any significant action in life. A firm hand might guide us through the narrative, and evocative descriptions might bring the details to life. However, to achieve this in a combative life involving contested facts is one of the most difficult tasks among rare abilities. There are few tasks so difficult for the imagination.

For Lord Brougham, in particular, it was impossible to attract people through the business details and cumbersome aggression of the previous age. His tone is simply too harsh. He shattered his contemporaries, but he will not charm posterity.

Lord Brougham has wished to be known, not only as an orator, but as a writer on oratory. He has written a 'Discourse' on Ancient Oratory, recommending, and very deservedly, its study to those who would now excel in the art; and there is no denying that he has rivalled the great Greek orator, at least in one of his characteristic excellences. There is no more manly book in the world than Brougham's Speeches; he always 'calls a spade a spade'; the rough energy strikes; we have none of the tawdry metaphor, or half-real finery of the inferior orators, there is not a simile which a man of sense should not own. Nevertheless, we are inclined to question whether his studies on ancient oratory, especially on the great public oration of Demosthenes, have been entirely beneficial to him. These masterly productions were, as everyone knows, the eager expression of an intense mind on questions of the best interest; they have accordingly the character of vehemence. Speaking on subjects which he thought involved the very existence of his country, he could not be expected to speak very temperately; he did not, and could not admit, that there was fair ground for difference of opinion; that an equally patriotic person, after proper consideration, could by possibility arrive at an opposite conclusion. The circumstances of the parliamentary orator in this country are quite different. A man cannot discuss the dowry of the Princess Royal, the conditions of the Bank Charter, as if they were questions of existence—all questions arising now present masses of fact, antecedents in blue-books, tabulated statistics, on which it is impossible that there should not be a necessity for an elaborate inquiry—that there should not be discrepancy of judgment after that inquiry. The Demosthenic vehemence is out of place. The calm didactic exposition, almost approaching to that of the lecturer, is more efficacious than the intense appeal of an eager orator. 'That Counsellor Broom was all in a fume,' is a line in one of the best ludicrous poems of a time rather fertile in such things. On points of detail it is ridiculous to be in a passion; on matters of business it is unpersuasive to be enthusiastic; even on topics less technical, the Greek oratory is scarcely a model to be imitated precisely. A certain nonchalant ease pervades our modern world we affect an indifference we scarcely feel; our talk is light, almost to affectation; our best writing is the same; we suggest rather than elaborate, hint rather than declaim. The spirit of the ancient world was very different—the tendency of its conversation probably was to a rhetorical formality, an haranguing energy; certainly it is the tendency of its written style. 'With every allowance,' says Colonel Mure, 'for the peculiar genius of the age in which the masterpieces of Attic prose were produced -a consideration which must always have a certain weight in literary judgments-still, the impartial modern critic cannot but discern in this pervading rhetorical tone a defect, perhaps the only serious defect, in the classical Greek style. . . . . It certainly is not natural for the historian or the popular essayist to address his readers in the same tone in which the defender of a client or the denouncer of a political opponent addresses a public assembly.' So great a change in the general world, in the audience to be spoken to, requires a change in the speaker. The light touch of Lord Palmerston is more effective than the most elaborated sentences of a formal rhetorician. Of old, when conversation and writing were half oratorical, oratory might be very oratorical; now that conversation is very conversational, oratory must be a little conversational. In real life, Lord Brougham has too much of the orator's tact not to be half aware of this; but his teaching forgets it.

Lord Brougham wished to be known not only as an orator but also as a writer on the art of oratory. He authored 'A Discourse on Ancient Oratory' and highly recommended its study to those who wish to excel in the art today. And it cannot be denied that he rivaled the great Greek orator, at least in one of his characteristic excellences.

There is no book in the world more manly than Brougham's speeches; he always 'calls a spade a spade.' His rough energy strikes home; there is none of the tawdry metaphor or half-real finery found in inferior orators, and there is not a single simile that a sensible man would not acknowledge.

Nevertheless, we are inclined to question whether his studies on ancient oratory, especially on the great public orations of Demosthenes, were entirely beneficial to him. These masterly productions were, as everyone knows, the eager expression of an intense mind regarding questions of the utmost importance; accordingly, they possess the character of vehemence. Because Demosthenes was speaking on subjects he believed involved the very existence of his country, he could not be expected to speak very temperately. He did not, and could not, admit that there was fair ground for a difference of opinion, or that an equally patriotic person, after proper consideration, could possibly arrive at an opposite conclusion.

However, the situation of a parliamentary orator in this country is quite different. One cannot discuss the dowry of the Princess Royal or the conditions of the Bank Charter as if they were questions of national existence. Every issue that arises today presents masses of facts, precedents in government blue-books, and tabulated statistics; it is impossible that there should not be a need for elaborate inquiry, and it is impossible that there should not be a discrepancy of judgment after that inquiry.

In such a situation, Demosthenic vehemence is out of place. A calm, didactic exposition, approaching that of a lecturer, is more effective than the intense appeal of an eager orator. 'That Counsellor Brougham was all in a fume' is a line from one of the best humorous poems of an era that was rather fertile in such things. It is ridiculous to be passionate about details, and it is unpersuasive to be enthusiastic about business matters. Even on non-technical subjects, Greek oratory is hardly a model to be imitated precisely.

A certain nonchalant ease pervades our modern world, and we affect an indifference we scarcely feel. Our conversation is light, almost to the point of affectation. Our best writing is the same; we tend to suggest rather than elaborate, and to hint rather than declaim.

The spirit of the ancient world was very different. Its tendency in conversation was perhaps towards rhetorical form, towards powerful oratory, and certainly that was the tendency of its written style. Colonel Mure states: 'Even with every allowance for the peculiar genius of the age in which the masterpieces of Attic prose were produced—which must always have a certain weight in literary judgment—the impartial modern critic cannot but find a defect in this omnipresent rhetorical tone, perhaps the only serious defect in the style of classical Greece. ... It is certainly not natural for a historian or a popular essayist to address his readers in the same tone as a counsel for a client or a denouncer of a political adversary speaks in a public assembly.'

Such a great change in the general world of the audience being addressed requires a change in the speaker himself. Lord Palmerston's light touch is more effective than the most elaborated writing of a formal rhetorician. In the old days, when conversation and writing were half-oratorical, oratory may have been very oratorical. But now, because conversation is so conversational, oratory must be a little conversational. In actual life, Lord Brougham has more than enough of the orator's tact, and he is not entirely unaware of this. However, his teachings forget it.

That Lord Brougham should have adopted a theory enjoining vehemence in oratory, is an instance to be cited by those who hold that a man's creed is a justification for his inclinations.
He is by nature over-vehement; and what is worse, it is not vehemence of the best kind; there is something of a scream about it. People rather laughed at his kneeling to beseech the peers. No one is sure that there is real feeling in what he reads and hears; it seems like a machine going. Lord Cockburn has an odd anecdote. An old judge, who loved dawdling, disliked the ‘discomposing qualities' of Brougham. His revenge consisted in sneering at Brougham's eloquence, by calling it or him the Harangue. 'Well, gentlemen, what did the Harangue say next ? Why it said this (misstating it); but here, gentlemen, the Harangue was wrong and not intelligible.' We have some feeling for the old judge. If you take a speech of Brougham, and read it apart from his voice, you have half a notion that it is a gong going, eloquence by machinery, an incessant talking thing.

That Lord Brougham adopted a theory that enjoins vehemence in oratory is an instance to be cited by those who hold that a man's creed is a justification for his inclinations. He is by nature over-vehement, and what is worse, it is not vehemence of the best kind; there is something of a scream about it.

People rather laughed at his kneeling to beseech the peers. No one is sure that there is real feeling in what he reads and hears; it seems like a machine going.

Lord Cockburn has an odd anecdote. An old judge, who loved dawdling, disliked the 'discomposing qualities' of Brougham. His revenge consisted in sneering at Brougham's eloquence by calling it or him the 'Harangue.' 'Well, gentlemen, what did the Harangue say next? Why, it said this (misstating it); but here, gentlemen, the Harangue was wrong and not intelligible.' We have some feeling for the old judge. If you take a speech of Brougham and read it apart from his voice, you have half a notion that it is a gong going, eloquence by machinery, an incessant talking thing.

7. His Facets as a Philosopher, Man of General Culture, and Memoirist

It is needless to point out how completely an excitable ungenial nature, such as we have so much spoken of, incapacitates Lord Brougham for abstract philosophy. His works on that subject are sufficiently numerous, but we are not aware that even his most ardent admirers have considered them as works of really the first class. It would not be difficult to extract from the 'Political Philosophy,' which is probably the best of them, singular instances of inconsistency and of confusion. The error was in his writing them; he who runs may read, but it does not seem likely he will think. The brooding disposition, and the still, investigating intellect, are necessary for consecutive reasonings on delicate philosophy.

As we have mentioned before, it is needless to point out how completely an excitable and ungenial nature, such as Lord Brougham's, incapacitates him for the world of abstract philosophy.

He has left a considerable number of works on this subject, but we have not heard that even his most ardent admirers consider them to be works of the first class. It would not be difficult to extract singular instances of inconsistency and confusion even from 'Political Philosophy,' which is probably considered the best among them.

The very act of writing those works was his error. He who runs may read, but it does not seem likely that he will stop and think deeply. A brooding disposition and a still, investigating intellect are essential for consecutive reasoning in delicate philosophy.

The same qualities, however, fit a man for the acquisition of general information. A man who is always rushing into the street will become familiar with the street. One who is forever changing from subject to subject will not become painfully acquainted with any one, but he will know the outsides of them all, and the road from each to the other. Accordingly, all the descriptions of Lord Brougham, even in his earliest career, speak of his immense information. Mr. Wilberforce, in perhaps the earliest printed notice of him, recommended Mr. Pitt to employ him in a diplomatic capacity, on account of his familiarity with languages, and the other kinds of necessary knowledge. He began by writing on Porisms; only the other day he read a paper on some absurdities imputed to the Integral Calculus, in French, at Paris. It would be in the highest degree tedious to enumerate all the subjects he knows something of. Of course, an extreme correctness cannot be expected. 'The most misinformed man in Europe,' is a phrase of satire; yet, even in its satire, it conveys a compliment to Brougham's information.

However, the same qualities he possessed made him very suitable for the acquisition of general knowledge. Just as a person who is always rushing out into the street becomes familiar with the street, a person who changes subjects one after another will not become painfully acquainted with any single subject, but will know the surfaces of them all and the connections from each to the others.

Therefore, descriptions of Lord Brougham mention his immense knowledge even in the earliest stages of his career. In perhaps the earliest printed mention of him, Mr. Wilberforce recommended to Mr. Pitt that he employ him as a diplomat, citing his familiarity with languages and other necessary knowledge. He began with writings on Porisms, and just the other day, he read a paper in French in Paris regarding some absurdities attributed to the Integral Calculus. It would be an extremely tedious task to enumerate all the subjects he knows something about.

Of course, one cannot expect extreme accuracy. There is a satirical phrase, 'the most misinformed man in Europe,' but even within that satire, a compliment to Lord Brougham's extensive knowledge is contained.

An especial interest in physical science may be remarked in Brougham, as in most men of impressible minds in his generation. He came into life when the great discoveries in our knowledge of the material world were either just made, or were on the eve of being made. The enormous advances, which have been actually made in material civilisation, were half anticipated. There was a vague hope in science. The boundaries of the universe, it was hoped, would move. Active, ardent minds were drawn with extreme hope to the study of new moving power; a smattering of science was immeasurably less common then than now, but it exercised a stronger dominion, and influenced a higher class of genius. It was new, and men were sanguine. In the present day, younger men are perhaps repelled into the opposite extreme. We live among the marvels of science, but we know how little they change us. The essentials of life are what they were. We go by the train, but we are not improved at our journey's end. We have railways, and canals, and manufactures excellent things, no doubt, but they do not touch the soul. Somehow, they seem to make life more superficial. With a half-wayward dislike, some in the present generation have turned from physical science and material things. 'We have tried these, and they fail,' is the feeling. 'What is the heart of man the better for galvanic engines and hydraulic presses? Leave us to the old poetry and the old philosophy; there is at least a life and a mind.' It is the day after the feast. We do not care for its delicacies; we are rather angry at its profusion; we are cross to hear it praised. Men who came into active life half a century ago were the guests invited to the banquet; they did not know what was coming, but they heard it was something gorgeous and great; they expected it with hope and longing. The influence of this feeling was curiously seen in the Useful Knowledge Society, the first great product of the educational movement in which Lord Brougham was the most ardent leader. No one can deny that their labours were important, their intentions excellent, the collision of mind which they created most beneficial. Still, looking to their well-known publications, beyond question the knowledge they particularly wished to diffuse is, according to the German phrase, 'factish.' Hazlitt said they confounded a knowledge of useful things with useful knowledge.' An idea, half unconscious, pervades them, that a knowledge of the detail of material knowledge, even too of the dates and shell of outside-history, is extremely important to the mass of men; that all will be well when we have a cosmical ploughboy and a mob that knows hydrostatics. We shall never have it; but even if we could, we should not be much the better. The heart and passions of men are moved by things more within their attainment; the essential nature is stirred by the essential life; by the real actual existence of love, and hope, and character, and by the real literature which takes in its spirit, and which is in some sort its undefecated essence. Thirty years ago the preachers of this now familiar doctrine were unknown, nor was their gospel for a moment the one perhaps most in season. It was good that there should be a more diffused knowledge of the material world; and it was good, therefore, that there should be partisans of matter, believers in particles, zealots for tissue, who were ready to incur any odium and any labour that a few more men might learn a few more things. How a man of incessant activity should pass easily to such a creed is evident. He would see the obvious ignorance. The less obvious argument, which shows that this ignorance, in great measure inevitable, was of far less importance than would be thought at first sight, would never be found by one who moved so rapidly.

In Lord Brougham, as in many men of sensitive minds of his generation, a special interest in physical science could be observed. The era when he began his activities was a time when great discoveries in our knowledge of the material world had either just been made or were about to be made. The enormous advances actually achieved in material civilization were half-anticipated, and there was a vague hope in science. It was expected that the boundaries of the universe would shift. Active, ardent minds were drawn to the study of new motive powers with extreme hope. A smattering of science was immeasurably less common then than it is now, but it exerted a stronger dominion and influenced a higher class of genius. It was new, and people were optimistic.

Today, younger people might be reacting to the opposite extreme. We live among the marvels of science, but we know how little they actually change us. The essentials of life are the same as they were before. We travel by train, but we are not improved as human beings at the end of our journey. We have railways, canals, and manufacturing—certainly wonderful things—but they do not touch the soul. Somehow, they seem to make life more superficial.

Out of a somewhat wayward dislike, some of the current generation have turned away from physical science and material things. 'We have tried these, but they failed,' is the sentiment. 'What is the human heart improved by galvanic engines and hydraulic presses? Leave us to the old poetry and the old philosophy. There is at least life and spirit there.' It is like the day after a feast. We have no interest in the delicacies; we are rather angry at the profusion, and we feel irritable when we hear it praised. People who entered active life half a century ago were guests invited to that banquet; they did not know what was coming, but they heard it was something gorgeous and great, and they expected it with hope and longing.

The influence of this feeling was seen in an interesting way in the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, the first great product of the educational movement in which Lord Brougham was the most ardent leader. No one can deny that their efforts were important, their intentions excellent, and the collision of minds they created most beneficial.

Yet, if we look at their well-known publications, the knowledge they especially wished to spread is, to use a German phrase, undoubtedly 'factitious' (fact-oriented). Hazlitt said they confused 'knowledge of useful things' with 'useful knowledge.' A semi-unconscious idea runs through them, that the details of material knowledge, and even the knowledge of dates and forms of external history, are of the utmost importance to the masses. They think that if a crowd can be created that knows about cosmic tillers and hydraulics, all will be well.

We will never have that. But even if we could, it would not be much better. The human heart and passions are moved by things closer to them than what they can achieve. Essential nature is moved by essential life—that is, by the real existence of love, hope, and character—and by true literature, which absorbs that spirit and is, in a sense, its unfiltered essence.

Thirty years ago, the preachers of this doctrine, now so familiar, were still unknown, and the doctrine itself was perhaps not the most suitable for that era. It was good that knowledge regarding the material world became more widely disseminated. Therefore, it was good that there were champions of matter, believers in particles, and fanatics for organization who did not shy away from any bad reputation or labor so that more people could learn more. It is clear that a constantly active person should easily move to such a creed. He will see obvious ignorance. However, the less obvious argument—that this ignorance, while mostly unavoidable, is not as important as it seems at first glance—will never be found by a person who moves so fast.

We have gone through now, in some hasty way, most of the lights in which Lord Brougham has been regarded by his contemporaries. There is still another character in which posterity will especially think of him. He is a great memoirist. His 'Statesmen of George III.' contains the best sketches of the political men of his generation, one with another, which the world has, or is likely to have. He is a fine painter of the exterior of human nature. Some portion of its essence requires a deeper character; another portion, more delicate sensations; but of the rough appearance of men, as they struck him in the law-court and in parliament of the great debater struggling with his words—the stealthy advocate gliding into the confidence of the audience—the great judge unravelling all controversies, and deciding by a well-weighed word all complicated doubts-of such men as these, and of men engaged in such tasks as these, there is no greater painter perhaps than Brougham. His eager aggressive disposition brought him into collision with conspicuous men; his skill in the obvious parts of human nature has made him understand them. A man who has knocked his head against a wall—if such an illustration is to be hazarded—will learn the nature of the wall. Those who have passed fifty years in managing men of the world, will know their external nature, and if they have literary power enough, will describe it. In general, Lord Brougham's excellence as a describer of character is confined to men whom he had thus personally and keenly encountered. The sketches of the philosophers of the eighteenth century, of French statesmen, are poor and meagre. He requires evidently the rough necessities of action to make him observe. There is, however, a remarkable exception. He preserves a singularly vivid recollection of the instructors of his youth; he nowhere appears so amiable as in describing them. He is over-partial, no doubt; but an old man may be permitted to reverence, if he can reverence, his schoolmaster.

We have now, albeit in a hasty manner, covered most of the aspects in which Lord Brougham was viewed by his contemporaries. However, there is another characteristic that posterity will especially associate with him when speaking of him. It is the fact that he is a great memoirist.

His book, 'Statesmen of the Time of George III,' contains the best sketches of the politicians of his generation—sketches that the world has never had before, and likely never will again. He is a painter who excels at depicting the exterior of human nature. While some parts of human essence require a deeper character and others require more delicate sensations, there is perhaps no better painter than Lord Brougham when it comes to the men who left a strong impression on him in the law courts and in parliament—the great debater struggling with his words, the shrewd lawyer slipping quietly into the audience's confidence, and the great judge unraveling all controversies and resolving complex doubts with a well-considered word—such men, and those engaged in such tasks.

His eager and aggressive personality led him into collisions with prominent figures. And his skill in the obvious parts of human nature brought him a deep understanding of them. If I may dare to use a metaphor, a person who has bumped his head against a wall will know the nature of that wall. A person who has managed men of the world for fifty years will know their external nature, and if he has sufficient literary power, he will describe it.

In general, Lord Brougham's excellence as a describer of character is limited to those he personally and keenly encountered. That is why his sketches of eighteenth-century philosophers and French politicians are poor and meager. He evidently requires the raw necessities of action to observe people deeply.

However, there is a remarkable exception. He retains a surprisingly vivid memory of the teachers of his youth. He never appears as amiable as when he is describing them. It cannot be denied that he is overly biased, but might an old man be permitted to pay reverence to his teachers, if he is capable of reverence?

This is all that our limits will permit us to say of Lord Brougham. On so varied a life, at least on a life with such varied pursuits, one might write to any extent. The regular biographer will come in after years. It is enough for a mere essayist to sketch, or strive to sketch, in some rude outline, the nature of the man.

This is all that can be said about Lord Brougham within our limited scope. One could continue writing indefinitely about a life so varied, or at least a life filled with such diverse pursuits. A formal biographer will surely appear in later years.

For a mere essayist like us, it is enough to sketch the nature of his character in some rough outline, or at least to attempt to do so.

III. Translator's Understanding