Lend Me Your Ears: Great Speeches in History

by Unknown

  And she, O Catiline, thus pleads with you, and after a manner silently speaks to you: There has now for many years been no crime committed but by you; no atrocity has taken place without you; you alone unpunished and unquestioned have murdered the citizens, have harassed and plundered the allies; you alone have had power not only to neglect all laws and investigations but to overthrow and break through them. Your former actions, though they ought not to have been borne, yet I did bear as well as I could; but now that I should be wholly occupied with fear of you alone, that at every sound I should dread Catiline, that no design should seem possible to be entertained against me which does not proceed from your wickedness, this is no longer endurable. Depart, then, and deliver me from this fear; that, if it be a just one, I may not be destroyed; if an imaginary one, that at least I may at last cease to fear.

  If, as I have said, your country were thus to address you, ought she not to obtain her request, even if she were not able to enforce it? What shall I say of your having given yourself into custody? What of your having said, for the sake of avoiding suspicion, that you were willing to dwell in the house of Marcus Lepidus? And when you were not received by him, you dared even to come to me, and begged me to keep you in my house; and when you had received answer from me that I could not possibly be safe in the same house with you, when I considered myself in great danger as long as we were in the same city, you came to Quintus Metellus, the praetor, and being rejected by him, you passed on to your associate, that most excellent man Marcus Marcellus, who would be, I suppose you thought, most diligent in guarding you, most sagacious in suspecting you, and most bold in punishing you; but how far can we think that man ought to be from bonds and imprisonment who has already judged himself deserving of being given into custody?

  Since, then, this is the case, do you hesitate, O Catiline, if you cannot remain here with tranquillity, to depart to some distant land, and to trust your life, saved from just and deserved punishment, to flight and solitude? Make a motion, say you, to the Senate (for that is what you demand), and if this body votes that you ought to go into banishment, you say that you will obey. I will not make such a motion, it is contrary to my principles, and yet I will let you see what these men think of you. Begone from the city, O Catiline, deliver the Republic from fear; depart into banishment, if that is the word you are waiting for. What now, O Catiline? Do you not perceive, do you not see the silence of these men? They permit it, they say nothing; why wait you for the authority of their words, when you see their wishes in their silence?…

  And yet, why am I speaking? That anything may change your purpose? That you may ever amend your life? That you may meditate flight or think of voluntary banishment? I wish the gods may give you such a mind; though I see, if alarmed at my words you bring your mind to go into banishment, what a storm of unpopularity hangs over me, if not at present, while the memory of your wickedness is fresh, at all events hereafter. But it is worthwhile to incur that, as long as that is but a private misfortune of my own, and is unconnected with the dangers of the Republic. But we cannot expect that you should be concerned at your own vices, that you should fear the penalties of the laws, or that you should yield to the necessities of the Republic, for you are not, O Catiline, one whom either shame can recall from infamy, or fear from danger, or reason from madness.

  Wherefore, as I have said before, go forth, and if you wish to make me, your enemy as you call me, unpopular, go straight into banishment. I shall scarcely be able to endure all that will be said if you do so; I shall scarcely be able to support my load of unpopularity if you do go into banishment at the command of the consul; but if you wish to serve my credit and reputation, go forth with your ill-omened band of profligates; betake yourself to Manlius, rouse up the abandoned citizens, separate yourselves from the good ones, wage war against your country, exult in your impious banditti, so that you may not seem to have been driven out by me and gone to strangers, but to have gone invited to your friends….

  Now that I may remove and avert, O conscript fathers, any in the least reasonable complaint from myself, listen, I beseech you, carefully to what I say, and lay it up in your inmost hearts and minds. In truth, if my country, which is far dearer to me than my life—if all Italy—if the whole Republic were to address me, Marcus Tullius, what are you doing? Will you permit that man to depart whom you have ascertained to be an enemy? Whom you see ready to become the general of the war? Whom you know to be expected in the camp of the enemy as their chief, the author of all this wickedness, the head of the conspiracy, the instigator of the slaves and abandoned citizens, so that he shall seem not driven out of the city by you, but let loose by you against the city? Will you not order him to be thrown into prison, to be hurried off to execution, to be put to death with the most prompt severity? What hinders you? Is it the customs of our ancestors? But even private men have often in this Republic slain mischievous citizens. Is it the laws which have been passed about the punishment of Roman citizens? But in this city those who have rebelled against the Republic have never had the rights of citizens. Do you fear odium with posterity? You are showing fine gratitude to the Roman people which has raised you, a man known only by your own actions, of no ancestral renown, through all the degrees of honor at so early an age to the very highest office, if from fear of unpopularity or of any danger you neglect the safety of your fellow citizens. But if you have a fear of unpopularity, is that arising from the imputation of vigor and boldness, or that arising from that of inactivity and indecision most to be feared? When Italy is laid waste by war, when cities are attacked and houses in flames, do you not think that you will be then consumed by a perfect conflagration of hatred?…

  If this man alone were put to death, I know that this disease of the Republic would be only checked for a while, not eradicated forever. But if he banishes himself, and takes with him all his friends, and collects at one point all the ruined men from every quarter, then not only will this full-grown plague of the Republic be extinguished and eradicated, but also the root and seed of all future evils.

  We have now for a long time, O conscript fathers, lived among these dangers and machinations of conspiracy; but somehow or other, the ripeness of all wickedness, and of this long-standing madness and audacity, has come to a head at the time of my consulship. But if this man alone is removed from this piratical crew, we may appear, perhaps, for a short time relieved from fear and anxiety, but the danger will settle down and lie hid in the veins and bowels of the Republic. As it often happens that men afflicted with a severe disease, when they are tortured with heat and fever, if they drink cold water seem at first to be relieved, but afterwards suffer more and more severely; so this disease which is in the Republic, if relieved by the punishment of this man, will only get worse and worse, as the rest will be still alive.

  Wherefore, O conscript fathers, let the worthless begone—let them separate themselves from the good—let them collect in one place—let them, as I have often said before, be separated from us by a wall; let them cease to plot against the consul in his own house—to surround the tribunal of the city praetor—to besiege the Senate house with swords—to prepare brands and torches to burn the city; let it, in short, be written on the brow of every citizen what are his sentiments about the Republic. I promise you this, O conscript fathers, that there shall be so much diligence in us the consuls, so much authority in you, so much virtue in the Roman knights, so much unanimity in all good men, that you shall see everything made plain and manifest by the departure of Catiline—everything checked and punished.

  With these omens, O Catiline, begone to your impious and nefarious war, to the great safety of the Republic, to your own misfortune and injury, and to the destruction of those who have joined themselves to you in every wickedness and atrocity. Then do you, O Jupiter, who were consecrated by Romulus with the same auspices as this city, whom we rightly call the stay of this city and empire, repel this man and his companions from your altars and from the other temples—f
rom the houses and walls of the city—from the lives and fortunes of all the citizens; and overwhelm all the enemies of good men, the foes of the Republic, the robbers of Italy, men bound together by a treaty and infamous alliance of crimes, dead and alive, with eternal punishments.

  Lord General Oliver Cromwell Orders the “Rump Parliament” Out of the House

  “Depart, I say; and let us have done with you. In the name of God—go!”

  In the English civil wars of the seventeenth century, with religious “Roundheads” fighting the royalists behind the absolutist Charles Stuart, a Puritan member of Parliament from Cambridge named Oliver Cromwell emerged as a military leader of genius. His forces defeated the royalists, and Cromwell, in an act remembered as regicide, signed the death warrant that brought about the execution of Charles I in 1649.

  Cromwell and his New Model Army purged the Parliament of many of the members he considered disloyal to him, governing with the remainder (called the “Rump Parliament”). But even this reduced group, supposedly an interim legislature, resisted the leader of the Puritan Commonwealth. On April 26, 1653, its members started to pass an act that would perpetuate their power. Cromwell saw this as a threat to his control, and took a company of musketeers with him into the House.

  We do not know exactly what he said that day because on January 7, 1659, a year after his death, in an act of historical vandalism, Parliament ordered the official version of his speech expunged from the record. (Two years later, after the Restoration of the monarchy, King Charles II had Cromwell’s remains disinterred from Westminster Abbey and his head placed on a pike atop the Hall throughout the king’s reign.) A century after that, when the Lord Protector, or dictator, was no longer so widely hated, free-speech advocates who wanted to castigate Parliament for its sedition persecution of the outspoken John Wilkes came up with a spurious version of the Cromwell speech. Here it is; the “shining bauble” referred to at the end was the parliamentary mace, symbol of authority:

  “It is high time for me to put an end to your sitting in this place, which you have dishonored by your contempt of all virtue, and defiled by your practice of every vice; ye are a factious crew, and enemies to all good government; ye are a pack of mercenary wretches, and would like Esau sell your country for a mess of pottage, and like Judas betray your God for a few pieces of money; is there a single virtue now remaining amongst you? Is there one vice you do not possess? Ye have no more religion than my horse; gold is your God; which of you have not barter’d your conscience for bribes? Is there a man amongst you that has the least care for the good of the Commonwealth? Ye sordid prostitutes have you not defil’d this sacred place, and turn’d the Lord’s temple into a den of thieves, by your immoral principles and wicked practices?

  “Ye are grown intolerably odious to the whole nation; you who were deputed here by the people to get grievances redress’d, are yourselves become the greatest grievance. Your country therefore calls upon me to cleanse this Augean stable, by putting a final period to your iniquitous proceedings in this House; and which by God’s help, and the strength he has given me, I am now come to do; I command ye therefore, upon the peril of your lives, to depart immediately out of this place; go, get you out! Make haste! Ye venal slaves be gone! Go! Take away that shining bauble there, and lock up the doors. In the name of God, go!”

  Close, perhaps, but not wholly authentic. A century after that, the famed English historian Thomas Carlyle pored over three contemporary sources to get as close as he could to what Cromwell actually said. “Combining these originals,” he wrote in 1845, “we have, after various perusals and collations and considerations, obtained the following authentic, moderately conceivable account.”

  Here is Carlyle’s reconstruction in the form of narrative studded with direct quotation. The Lord General was Cromwell; he had not yet promoted himself to Lord Protector. Note the report of Cromwell’s “clapping on his hat,” the angry general’s calculated insult to parliamentary rule. With his company of armed soldiers outside the hall at the ready, the general takes his seat.

  ***

  WHEREUPON THE LORD General sat still, for about a quarter of an hour longer. But now the question being put, That this Bill do now pass, he beckons again to Harrison, says, “This is the time; I must do it!”—and so rose up, put off his hat, and spake. At the first, and for a good while, he spake to the commendation of the Parliament for their pains and care of the public good; but afterwards he changed his style, told them of their injustice, delays of justice, self-interest, and other faults—rising higher and higher, into a very aggravated style indeed. An honorable Member, Sir Peter Wentworth by name, not known to my readers, and by me better known than trusted, rises to order, as we phrase it; says, “It is a strange language this; unusual within the walls of Parliament this! And from a trusted servant too; and one whom we have so highly honored; and one”—“Come, come!” exclaims my Lord General in a very high key, “we have had enough of this,”—and in fact my Lord General now blazing all up into clear conflagration, exclaims, “I will put an end to your prating,” and steps forth into the floor of the House, and clapping on his hat, and occasionally stamping the floor with his feet, begins a discourse:…

  “It is not fit that you should sit here any longer! You have sat too long here for any good you have been doing lately. You shall now give place to better men!—Call them in!” adds he briefly, to Harrison, in word of command: and some twenty or thirty grim musketeers enter, with bullets and their snaphances; grimly prompt for orders….

  “You call yourselves a Parliament,” continues my Lord General in clear blaze of conflagration: “You are no Parliament: I say you are no Parliament! Some of you are drunkards,” and his eye flashes on poor Mr. Chaloner, an official man of some value, addicted to the bottle; “some of you are—” and he glares into Harry Marten, and the poor Sir Peter who rose to order, lewd livers both; “living in open contempt of God’s Commandments. Following your own greedy appetites, and the Devil’s Commandments.”

  “Corrupt unjust persons; scandalous to the profession of the Gospel; how can you be a Parliament for God’s People? Depart, I say; and let us have done with you. In the name of God—go!”

  A Youthful William Pitt the Elder Debates the Merits of Age

  “I will not sit unconcerned while my liberty is invaded, nor look in silence upon public robbery.”

  In 1741, a limit of thirty-five shillings a month was proposed for the wages of sailors, and the discussion of this proposition led the elder William Pitt to demonstrate his eloquence in debate. Born in 1708, Pitt eventually served as prime minister and was known as the Great Commoner. The year that he turned thirty-three, however, his reputation as a debater was secured with his response to the accusation of what he called “the atrocious crime of being a young man.”

  The speech to which Pitt was replying has been variously attributed to Sir Robert Walpole, prime minister of England from 1721 to 1742, and to his third son, Horace (originally Horatio), statesman and writer. Samuel Johnson’s original edition of Parliamentary Debates, the source of the debate’s text, credits Horatio Walpole, although he was born in 1717, almost ten years after the elder Pitt.

  William Pitt’s impassioned answer weighs first the difference between age and experience and then the proper language for debate. Through the repeated use of the correlative conjunctions “neither” and “nor,” he balances his ideas in parallel structure and turns the attack from “youth” to “age, which always brings one privilege, that of being insolent and supercilious without punishment.”

  ***

  SIR, I WAS unwilling to interrupt the course of this debate while it was carried on with calmness and decency, by men who do not suffer the ardor of opposition to cloud their reason, or transport them to such expressions as the dignity of this assembly does not admit.

  I have hitherto deferred to answer the gentleman who declaimed against the bill with such fluency of rhetoric and such vehemence of gesture, who c
harged the advocates for the expedients now proposed with having no regard to any interest but their own, and with making laws only to consume paper, and threatened them with the defection of their adherents and the loss of their influence upon this new discovery of their folly and their ignorance. Nor, sir, do I now answer him for any other purpose than to remind him how little the clamors of rage and petulancy of invectives contribute to the purposes for which this assembly is called together; how little the discovery of truth is promoted and the security of the nation established by pompous diction and theatrical emotions.

  Formidable sounds and furious declamations, confident assertions and lofty periods, may affect the young and inexperienced, and, perhaps, the gentleman may have contracted his habits of oratory by conversing more with those of his own age than with such as have had more opportunities of acquiring knowledge and more successful methods of communicating their sentiments. If the heat of his temper, sir, would suffer him to attend to those whose age and long acquaintance with business give them an indisputable right to deference and superiority, he would learn, in time, to reason rather than declaim and to prefer justness of argument, and an accurate knowledge of facts, to sounding epithets and splendid superlatives, which may disturb the imagination for a moment, but leave no lasting impression on the mind.

  He will learn, sir, that to accuse and prove are very different, and that reproaches unsupported by evidence affect only the character of him that utters them. Excursions of fancy and flights of oratory are, indeed, pardonable in young men, but in no other; and it would surely contribute more, even to the purpose for which some gentlemen appear to speak, that of depreciating the conduct of the administration, to prove the inconveniences and injustice of this bill, than barely to assert them, with whatever magnificence of language or appearance of zeal, honesty, or compassion.