Part 3

Has such been the intention of Spain? Whether the proceedings which have lately been practised or permitted in Spain were acts of a government exercising the usual power of prudence and foresight (without which a government is, for the good of the people which live under it, no government at all), or whether they were the acts of some secret illegitimate power—of some furious fanatical faction, over-riding the counsels of the ostensible government, defying it in the capital, and disobeying it on the frontiers,—I will not stop to inquire. It is indifferent to Portugal, smarting under her wrongs—it is indifferent to England, who is called upon to avenge them,—whether the present state of things be the result of the intrigues of a faction, over which, if the Spanish Government has no control, it ought to assume one as soon as possible; or of local authorities, over whom it has control, and for whose acts it must, therefore, be held responsible. It matters not, I say, from which of these sources the evil has arisen. In either case, Portugal must be protected; and from England that protection is due.

It would be unjust, however, to the Spanish Government, to say that it is only among the members of that government that an unconquerable hatred of liberal institutions exists in Spain. However incredible the phenomena may appear in this country, I am persuaded that a vast majority of the Spanish nation entertain a decided attachment to arbitrary power, and a predilection for absolute government. The more liberal institutions of countries in the neighborhood have not yet extended their influence into Spain, nor awakened any sympathy in the mass of the Spanish people. Whether the public authorities of Spain did or did not partake of the national sentiment, there would almost necessarily grow up between Portugal and Spain, under present circumstances, an opposition of feelings which it would not require the authority or the suggestions of the government to excite and stimulate into action. Without blame, therefore, to the government of Spain—out of the natural antipathy between the two neighboring nations—the one prizing its recent freedom, the other hugging its traditionary servitude,—there might arise mutual provocations and reciprocal injuries, which, perhaps, even the most active and vigilant ministry could not altogether restrain. I am inclined to believe that such has been, in part at least, the origin of the differences between Spain and Portugal. That in their progress they have been adopted, matured, methodized, combined, and brought into more perfect action, by some authority more united and more efficient than the mere feeling disseminated through the mass of the community, is certain; but I do believe their origin to have been as much in the real sentiment of the Spanish population, as in the opinion or contrivance of the government itself.

Whether this be or be not the case, is precisely the question between us and Spain. If, though partaking in the general feelings of the Spanish nation, the Spanish Government has, nevertheless, done nothing to embody those feelings, and to direct them hostilely against Portugal; if all that has occurred on the frontiers has occurred only because the vigilance of the Spanish Government has been surprised, its confidence betrayed, and its orders neglected; if its engagements have been repeatedly and shamefully violated, not by its own good-will, but against its recommendation and desire, let us see some symptoms of disapprobation, some signs of repentance, some measures indicative of sorrow for the past and of sincerity for the future. In that case, his Majesty’s message, to which I propose this night to return an answer of concurrence, will retain the character which I have ascribed to it—that of a measure of defence for Portugal, not a measure of resentment again Spain.

With these explanations and qualifications, let us now proceed to the review of facts. Great desertions took place from the Portuguese army into Spain, and some desertions took place from the Spanish army into Portugal. In the first instance, the Portuguese authorities were taken by surprise; but in every subsequent instance, where they had an opportunity of exercising a discretion, it is but just to say that they uniformly discouraged the desertions of the Spanish soldiery. There exist between Spain and Portugal specific treaties, stipulating the mutual surrender of deserters. Portugal had, therefore, a right to claim of Spain that every Portuguese deserter should be forthwith sent back. I hardly know whether from its own impulse, or in consequence of our advice, the Portuguese Government waived its right under those treaties; very wisely reflecting that it would be highly inconvenient to be placed by the return of their deserters in the difficult alternative of either granting a dangerous amnesty or ordering numerous executions. The Portuguese Government, therefore, signified to Spain that it would be entirely satisfied if, instead of surrendering the deserters, Spain would restore their arms, horses, and equipments; and, separating the men from their officers, would remove both from the frontiers into the interior of Spain. Solemn engagements were entered into by the Spanish Government to this effect—first with Portugal, next with France, and afterward with England. Those engagements, concluded one day, were violated the next. The deserters, instead of being disarmed and dispersed, were allowed to remain congregated together near the frontiers of Portugal, where they were enrolled, trained, and disciplined for the expedition which they have since undertaken. It is plain that in these proceedings there was perfidy somewhere. It rests with the Spanish Government to show that it was not with them. It rests with the Spanish Government to prove that, if its engagements have not been fulfilled—if its intentions have been eluded and unexecuted,—the fault has not been with the government, and that it is ready to make every reparation in its power.

I have said that these promises were made to France and to Great Britain as well as to Portugal. I should do a great injustice to France if I were not to add, that the representations of that government upon this point to the cabinet of Madrid, have been as urgent, and alas! as fruitless, as those of Great Britain. Upon the first irruption into the Portuguese territory, the French Government testified its displeasure by instantly recalling its embassador; and it further directed its chargé d’affaires to signify to his Catholic Majesty, that Spain was not to look for any support from France against the consequences of this aggression upon Portugal. I am bound, I repeat, in justice to the French Government, to state, that it has exerted itself to the utmost in urging Spain to retrace the steps which she has so unfortunately taken. It is not for me to say whether any more efficient course might have been adopted to give effect to their exhortations; but as to the sincerity and good faith of the exertions made by the government of France to press Spain to the execution of her engagements, I have not the shadow of a doubt, and I confidently reckon upon their continuance.

It will be for Spain, upon knowledge of the step now taken by his Majesty, to consider in what way she will meet it. The earnest hope and wish of his Majesty’s Government is, that she may meet it in such a manner as to avert any ill consequences to herself from the measure into which we have been driven by the unjust attack upon Portugal.

Sir, I set out with saying that there were reasons which entirely satisfied my judgment that nothing short of a point of national faith or national honor would justify, at the present moment, any voluntary approximation to the possibility of war. Let me be understood, however, distinctly as not meaning to say that I dread war in a good cause (and in no other way may it be the lot of this country ever to engage!) from a distrust of the strength of the country to commence it, or of her resources to maintain it. I dread it, indeed—but upon far other grounds: I dread it from an apprehension of the tremendous consequences which might arise from any hostilities in which we might now be engaged. Some years ago, in the discussion of the negotiations respecting the French war against Spain, I took the liberty of adverting to this topic. I then stated that the position of this country in the present state of the world was one of neutrality, not only between contending nations, but between conflicting principles; and that it was by neutrality alone that we could maintain that balance, the preservation of which I believed to be essential to the welfare of mankind. I then said, that I feared that the next war which should be kindled in Europe would be a war not so much of armies as of opinions. Not four years have elapsed, and behold my apprehension realized! It is, to be sure, within narrow limits that this war of opinion is at present confined; but it _is_ a war of opinion that Spain (whether as government or as nation) is now waging against Portugal; it is a war which has commenced in hatred of the new institutions of Portugal. How long is it reasonable to expect that Portugal will abstain from retaliation? If into that war this country shall be compelled to enter, we shall enter into it with a sincere and anxious desire to mitigate rather than exasperate—and to mingle only in the conflict of arms, not in the more fatal conflict of opinions. But I much fear that this country (however earnestly she may endeavor to avoid it) could not, in such case, avoid seeing ranked under her banners all the restless and dissatisfied of any nation with which she might come in conflict. It is the contemplation of this new _power_ in any future war which excites my most anxious apprehension. It is one thing to have a giant’s strength, but it would be another to use it like a giant. The consciousness of such strength is, undoubtedly, a source of confidence and security; but in the situation in which this country stands, our business is not to seek opportunities of displaying it, but to content ourselves with letting the professors of violent and exaggerated doctrines on both sides feel, that it is not their interest to convert an umpire into an adversary. The situation of England, amid the struggle of political opinions which agitates more or less sensibly different countries of the world, may be compared to that of the Ruler of the Winds, as described by the poet:

“Celsâ sedet Æolus arce, Sceptra tenens; mollitque animos et temperat iras Ni faciat, maria ac terras cœlumque profundum Quippe ferant rapidi secum, verrantque per auras.”[1]

The consequence of letting loose the passions at present chained and confined, would be to produce a scene of desolation which no man can contemplate without horror; and I should not sleep easy on my couch if I were conscious that I had contributed to precipitate it by a single moment.

This, then, is the reason—a reason very different from fear—the reverse of a consciousness of disability—why I dread the recurrence of hostilities in any part of Europe; why I would bear much, and would forbear long; why I would (as I have said) put up with almost any thing that did not touch national faith and national honor, rather than let slip the furies of war, the leash of which we hold in our hands—not knowing whom they may reach, or how far their ravages may be carried. Such is the love of peace which the British Government acknowledges; and such the necessity for peace which the circumstances of the world inculcate. I will push these topics no further.

I return, in conclusion, to the object of the address. Let us fly to the aid of Portugal, by whomsoever attacked, because it is our duty to do so; and let us cease our interference where that duty ends. We go to Portugal not to rule, not to dictate, not to prescribe constitutions, but to defend and to preserve the independence of an ally. We go to plant the standard of England on the well-known heights of Lisbon. Where that standard is planted, foreign dominion shall not come.

LORD MACAULAY.

In August of 1825 there appeared in the _Edinburgh Review_ an article on Milton which attracted instantaneous and universal attention. Though it did not, perhaps, go to the bottom of the various topics it had to deal with, it displayed so wonderful a range of knowledge, so great a variety of strong and striking thoughts, and such a splendor of rhetoric, that it dazzled and drew into an earnest enthusiasm the host of readers of that already famous journal. When it came to be known that the author of this marvellous piece of literary workmanship was a young man of only twenty-five, it was at once perceived that a new luminary had made its appearance in the galaxy of English authorship. From that time till the day when, nearly thirty years later, his services in behalf of letters were rewarded with a grave in the Poets’ Corner at Westminster Abbey, Thomas Babington Macaulay wielded a literary influence not surpassed by that of any other master of English prose.

He was the son of Zachary Macaulay, a man who had distinguished himself as an anti-slavery philanthropist even among men like Stephen, Clarkson, and Wilberforce. His mother was a daughter of Thomas Mills, a bookseller, and a Quaker. Though the lad did not inherit a fortune, his father was able without much inconvenience to give him the advantages of an education at one of the universities. Up to the age of thirteen he was taught almost exclusively by his mother; and when he was at length placed in a private school, his brightness and eagerness of mind astonished all those with whom he came in contact. That most charming of all biographies of literary men, Trevelyan’s “Life and Letters of Macaulay,” teems with evidence of his singular attainments at an early age.

At Cambridge, which he entered at the age of eighteen, he devoted himself with great fervor to the study of the classics, to reading in history and general literature, and to the development of his abilities as an extemporaneous speaker. He took whatever prizes came in his way, but, owing to his distaste for the mathematics, did not try for honors at the completion of his course. On leaving the university with the degree of Bachelor of Arts in 1822, his mental habits and peculiarities seem to have been substantially fixed. He was already master of vast stores of information, which he always seemed to keep under the play of his wit and his imagination. His memory was so prodigious that he could repeat the names of the popes either backward or forward; and he once remarked that if every copy of the “Paradise Lost” were to be destroyed, he thought he could reproduce the poem from memory. He read with such marvellous rapidity that he would devour a book in the course of a morning walk in London; and the vast accumulations which he thus brought into the range of his knowledge were so vitalized by his feelings and his imagination that they were always completely at his service.

Though his biographer shows us that he was one of the most charming and lovable of men, his writings would convey another impression. He appears never to have had any self-distrust; he was seldom in doubt on any subject; what to others seemed mere probabilities were to him positive certainties; indeed, on whatever question he wrote or spoke his opinions always seemed to have been irrevocably fixed long before. Lord Melbourne told the whole story when he once said: “I wish I was as cock-sure of any thing as Tom Macaulay is of every thing.”

The essay on Milton was followed at brief intervals by that remarkable series on Machiavelli, Dryden, Hallam, Hampden, Ranke, and others, which has been the delight and inspiration of so many students in England and America. Macaulay studied law, but we never hear that his literary labors were disturbed by clients. The prices which his articles commanded in the market of the Reviews enabled him to gratify his tastes; and he seems never to have had any inclination to push himself into an active practice of his profession.

One of the peculiar merits claimed for the old borough system by its friends was that it enabled young men of great promise to find an easy way into the House of Commons. Pitt, Channing, and Brougham had first been appointed from pocket boroughs, and now Macaulay was to receive a similar favor. In 1830, the very year when the Whigs, after a long exclusion from office, came into power under Lord Grey, Macaulay, through the favor of Lord Lansdowne, entered the House, as the Member for Calne. Though he afterward boasted that, while sitting as the nominee of Lord Lansdowne, he was as independent as when at a later period he represented the popular constituencies of Leeds and Edinburgh, it is worthy of note that from the first he was an ardent and unqualified supporter of the Whigs. In the great question of Representative Reform his sympathies were thoroughly enlisted on the side of Earl Grey; and his speeches on the subject, four in number, contributed not a little to the final triumph of that great movement. Some of his letters, given by Trevelyan, reveal in the most graphic light the intensity of public feeling while the contest was going on.

In the reformed Parliament of 1834 he took a seat as a member from Leeds; but in that same year his place was made vacant by his appointment as one of the Government Council for India. For this position he was amply qualified. His essays on the “Utilitarian Theory of Government” and “Dumont’s Recollections of Mirabeau” showed that he had studied jurisprudence as a science, and even that he considered the province of a jurist as superior to that of a statesman. Moreover he had made an especial study of India. In July of 1833 the Government brought forward its new India Bill, and Macaulay’s speech on the measure left perhaps even a deeper impression than had been made by either of his speeches on the Reform Bill. Jeffrey, who happened to be present, wrote to one of his correspondents: “Mack is a marvellous person. He made the very best speech that has been made this session on India. The Speaker, who is a severe judge, says he rather thinks it the best speech he ever heard.”

Trevelyan, in his life of Macaulay, has thrown out into clear light the object of his uncle in exiling himself from England during four years by going to India. While Macaulay was not without faith that he could be of service to the Government, the consideration which led to his decision was of a pecuniary nature. Though unmarried, he was not in a condition to be strictly independent, and without pecuniary independence, he was open to the charge while in Parliament of being an adventurer. The salary of the position offered was liberal, even in the English sense of that term. He was to receive £10,000 a year; and his letters show with what care he computed that, being a bachelor, he could live in India even in a governmental position on $25,000 a year, and save a similar amount for permanent investment. His hope was that at the end of five years he would be able to return with about $125,000 and henceforth devote himself with entire independence to a higher range of literary study. He had already begun to make plans for his great History.

There were, however, those who regarded the appointment as an unmerited reward for political services. When some one sneered at his abilities, Shiel, in his mocking way, replied: “Nonsense, sir! Don’t attempt to run down Macaulay; he’s the cleverest man in Christendom. Didn’t he make four speeches on the Reform Bill and get £10,000 a year? Think of that and be dumb!”

While in India Macaulay’s chief energies were devoted to the preparation of a code, by which he hoped to solve the perplexing problems that constantly thrust themselves forward in the government of that teeming peninsula. Though in this effort he was not successful, the ability and ingenuity of his work were generally acknowledged. His code was regarded as impracticable, and was finally rejected. It was during his stay in India that the essays on Mackintosh and Bacon were prepared.

Soon after his return in 1838 an election to Parliament by the important constituency of Edinburgh once more brought him into legislative activity. He supported Lord Melbourne till the downfall of his ministry, in 1841, and then became an opponent of Sir Robert Peel, in opposition to whose policy he delivered some of his ablest speeches. When a candidate for reëlection in 1847, he was defeated on account of some offence he had given in advocating a policy of liberality toward the means of educating Catholics in Ireland. But this defeat, though deeply mortifying to him at the time, was not without compensating advantages. He now had leisure to devote himself to the great literary work which for a considerable time had already been under his pen. In 1848 appeared the first two volumes of the “History of England from the Time of James the Second.” The work sprang at once into that phenomenal popularity which has scarcely yet abated, for it still enjoys the high distinction of having been more read than any other historical work in the language. The third and fourth volumes were given to the world in 1855, just as he was beginning to feel the approaches of that irresistible disease which was soon to bring his labors to an untimely end. Two years after the appearance of the fourth volume his services in behalf of history and letters were rewarded with the peerage. The numerous essays flowing from his pen still showed that the splendor of his faculties was undimmed, and it was therefore with surprise as well as sorrow that, late in December of 1859, the English-speaking world learned of his death from disease of the heart. With the unanimous concurrence of a mourning nation, he was given the highest literary honor of a burial in the Poet’s Corner of Westminster Abbey.

The peculiarities of Macaulay’s oratory were strikingly similar to those of his writings. With the exception, however, of his speech on the government of India, no one of his orations has the elaborateness so characteristic of his essays. Perhaps the most vivid notion of the methods and qualities of his address is conveyed by the description that appeared in the “Noctes Ambrosianæ” immediately after the delivery of the speech selected for this volume. It is the description of a most ardent political enemy and a most energetic hater of all Whigs. After saying that Macaulay is “the cleverest declaimer on the Whig side of the House,” Wilson goes on to say: “He is an ugly, cross-made, splay-footed, shapeless little dumpling of a fellow, with a featureless face too—except, indeed, a good expansive forehead,—sleek, puritanical, sandy hair, large glimmering eyes, and a mouth from ear to ear. He has a lisp and burr, moreover, and speaks thickly and huskily for several minutes before he gets into the swing of his discourse; but after that nothing can be more dazzling than his whole execution. What he says is substantially, of course, stuff and nonsense; but it is so well worded, and so volubly and forcibly delivered—there is such an endless string of epigram and antithesis—such a flashing of epithets, such an accumulation of images, and the voice is so trumpet-like, and the action so grotesquely emphatic, that you might hear a pin drop in the House. Even Manners Sutton himself listens.”

LORD MACAULAY.

ON THE REFORM BILL OF 1832; HOUSE OF COMMONS, MARCH 2, 1831.