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With Rockingham and Burke it was a case of the tail wagging the dog, but Burke and Rockingham understood each other, and always remained firm friends.

I believe it was John J. Ingalls who said America had never elected but one first-class man for President, and he was chosen only because he was unknown.

Rockingham could neither make a speech nor write a readable article; but he was kindly disposed, honest and intelligent and had a gracious and winning presence. He lives in history today chiefly because Edmund Burke was associated with him.

Burke was too big a man for Premier–such men have to be kept in subjection–the popular will is wise. Men like Burke make enemies–common folks can not follow them in their flight, and in their presence we feel “like a farmer in the presence of a sleight-of-hand man.”

To have life, and life in abundance, is the prayer of every strong and valiant soul. But men are forever running away from life–getting into “positions,” monasteries, communities, and now and again cutting the cable of existence by suicide. The man who commits suicide usually leaves a letter giving a reason–almost any reason is sufficient–he was looking for a reason and when he thought he had found it, he seized upon it.

Life to Edmund Burke was the gracious gift of the gods, and he was grateful for it. He ripened slowly. Arrested development never caught him–all the days of his life his mind was expanding and reaching out, touching every phase of human existence. Nothing was foreign to him; nothing that related to human existence was small or insignificant. When the home-thrust was made that Ireland had not suffered more through the absenteeism of her landlords than through the absenteeism of her men of genius, Burke made the reply that Ireland needed friends in the House of Commons more than at home.

Burke loved Ireland to the last, and his fine loyalty for her people doubtless cost him a seat in the Cabinet. In moments of passion his tongue took on a touch of the old sod, which gave Fox an opportunity of introducing a swell bull, “Burke’s brogue is worth going miles to see.” And once when Burke was speaking of America he referred to the wondrous forests “where the hand of man had never trod,” Fox arose to a point of order. And this was a good deal easier on the part of Fox than to try to meet his man in serious debate.

Burke’s was not the primrose path of dalliance. He fought his way inch by inch. Often it was a dozen to one against him. In one speech he said: “The minister comes down in state attended by beasts clean and unclean. He opens his budget and edifies us with a speech–one-half the house goes away. A second gentleman gets up and another half goes, and a third gentleman launches a speech that rids the house of another half.”

A loud laugh here came in, and Burke stopped and said he was most happy if a small dehorned Irish bull of his could put the House in such good humor, and went on with his speech. Soon, however, there were cries of “Shame!” from the Tories, who thought Burke was speaking disrespectfully of the King.

Burke paused and said: “Mr. Speaker, I have not spoken of the King except in high esteem–I prize my head too well for that. But I do not think it necessary that I should bow down to his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox nor his ass”–and he fixed his intrepid gaze upon the chief offender.

Nature’s best use for genius is to make other men think; to stir things up so sedimentation does not take place; to break the ankylosis of self-complacency; and start the stream of public opinion running so it will purify itself.

Burke was an agitator–not a leader. He had the great gift of exaggeration, without which no man can be a great orator. He painted the picture large, and put the matter in a way that compelled attention. For thirty years he was a most prominent figure in English politics–no great measure could be passed without counting on him. His influence held dishonesty in check, and made oppression pause.

History is usually written from one of three points of view–political, literary or economic. Macaulay stands for the first, Taine the second, Buckle the third. Each writer considers his subject supreme. When we speak of the history of a country we usually refer to its statesmen.

Politicians live the lives of moths as compared with the lasting influence of commerce that feeds, houses and clothes, says Buckle.

Rulers govern, but it is literature that enlightens, says Taine.

Literature and commerce are made possible only through the wisdom of statesmen, says Macaulay.

Edmund Burke’s business was statecraft; his play was letters; but he lives for us through letters.

He had two sets of ardent friends: his political associates, and that other little group of literary cronies made up of Johnson, Goldsmith, Boswell, Reynolds and Garrick.

With these his soul was free–his sense of sublimity then found wings: the vocabulary of Johnson, the purling poetry of Goldsmith, the grace of Garrick’s mimicry, the miracle of Reynolds’ pencil and brush–these ministered to his hungry heart.

They were forms of expression.

All life is an expression of spirit.

Burke’s life was dedicated to expression.

He expressed through speech, personal presence and written words. Who ever expressed in this way so well? And–stay!–who ever had so much that was worth while to express?