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The freshman had begun to read his essay in a loud, declamatory style; but gradually, knowing with an orator’s instinct, I suppose, that his audience was not `with’ him, he had quieted down, and become rather nervous–too nervous to skip, as I am sure he wished to skip, the especially conflagrant passages. But, as the end hove in sight, his confidence was renewed. A wave of emotion rose to sweep him ashore upon its crest. He gave the peroration for all it was worth. Mazzini is dead. I can hear now the hushed tone in which he spoke those words; the pause that followed them; and the gradual rising of his voice to a culmination at the words `inspired shout’; and then another pause before that husky whisper `GOD AND THE PEOPLE.’ There was no discussion. We were petrified. We sat like stones; and presently, like shadows, we drifted out into the evening air. The little society met once or twice again; but any activity it still had was but the faint convulsion of a murdered thing. Old wine had been poured into a new bottle, with the usual result. Broken even so, belike, would be the glass roof of the Commons if a member spouted up to it such words as we heard that evening in Oxford. At any rate, the member would be howled down. So strong is the modern distaste for oratory. The day for oratory, as for toping, is past beyond redemption. `Debating’ is the best that can be done and appreciated by so abstemious a generation as ours. You will find a very decent level of `debating’ in the Oxford Union, in the Balham Ethical Society, in the Pimlico Parliament, and elsewhere. But not, I regret to say, in the House of Commons.

No one supposes that in a congeries of–how many?–six hundred and seventy men, chosen by the British public, there will be a very high average of mental capacity. If any one were so sanguine, a glance at the faces of our Conscript Fathers along the benches would soon bleed him. (I have no doubt that the custom of wearing hats in the House originated in the members’ unwillingness to let strangers spy down on the shapes of their heads.) But it is not unreasonable to expect that the more active of these gentlemen will, through constant practice, not only in the senate, but also at elections and public dinners and so forth, have acquired a rough-and-ready professionalism in the art of speaking. It is not unreasonable to expect that they will be fairly fluent–fairly capable of arranging in logical sequence such ideas as they may have formed, and of reeling out words more or less expressive of these ideas. Well! certain of the Irishmen, certain of the Welshmen, proceed easily enough. But oh! those Saxon others! Look at them, hark at them, poor dears! See them clutching at their coats, and shuffling from foot to foot in travail, while their ideas–ridiculous mice, for the most part–get jerked painfully out somehow and anyhow. `It seems to me that the Right–the honourable member for–er–er (the speaker dives to be prompted)–yes, of course–South Clapham–er– (temporising) the Southern division of Clapham–(long pause; his lips form the words `Where was I?’)–oh yes, the honourable gentleman the member for South Clapham seems to me to me–to be–in the position of one who, whilst the facts on which his propo–supposition are based– er– may or may not be in themselves acc–correct (gasps)–yet inasmuch–because–nevertheless…I should say rather–er–what it comes to is this: the honourable member for North–South Clapham seems to be labouring under a total, an entire, a complete (emphatic gesture, which throws him off his tack)–a contire–a complete disill- -misunderstanding of the things which he himself relies on as–as–as a backing-up of the things that he would have us take or–er–accept and receive as the right sort of reduction–deduction from the facts of…in fact, from the facts of the case.’ Then the poor dear heaves a deep sigh of relief, which is drowned by other members in a hideous cachinnation meant to express mirth.