University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

As the fall advanced, the younger members of
the bar, the students and others, at the suggestion
of Bradshaw, formed a debating society. They
met night after night, preparing a constitution and
adding to their numbers. Bradshaw exerted himself
to get up the institution and to infuse an esprit du
corps into the society. He would dwell, among his
companions, with no common enthusiasm, on those
accounts in the lives of eminent men, which tell of
their first efforts in debating societies.

“Practice is the thing,” he would say, “and we
must go a-head; `keep moving, dad, keep moving,'
as young Rapid says in the play. We must keep
moving with a high purpose. Without going back
to the ancients—to the cave of Demosthenes, and
his shaven crown, and six months' self-imprisonment—to
Cicero's trials and studies, and a hundred
others; look at the moderns! Poor Curran, by Jove!
we are told, that his wife and family occupied the
room in which the debating society to which he belonged
met—they let him occupy it because he had
no other—and he had to move out bag and baggage,
wife and children, every Saturday night that
they might meet. When old Bob Lyons took him

his first fee, Curran said himself that the only furniture
of his room was a bed, table, a few broken
chairs, a pregnant wife, and three children. What
a beautiful passage that is in his speeches, where,
addressing Lord Avonmore, between whom and
himself there had been a misunderstanding, he reminded
him of their early associations; Avonmore
burst into tears. Avonmore was, in those days
which Curran referred to, not worth a sixpence
himself. When Curran was at college, the faculty
were about censuring him for his slovenliness; in
self-defence, he told the anecdote of Avonmore.
`Mother,' said Avonmore, `I wish I had eleven
shirts!'—`Why so, Barry?'—`Because, mother, I
think, a man, to be a gentleman, should have the
full dozen.” Do ye take? Curran had but one—
a first-rate excuse for not changing. Erskine went
to the Robin Hood debating society night after
night; by practising there, he acquired that command
of his powers, which enabled him, in his very
first speech at the bar, to come out all excellence.
Burke first signalized himself at a debating society,
by opposing a journeyman baker, who, Goldsmith
said, was fit to be lord chancellor. Look at our
own great men! Judge Chase, the signer of the
Declaration of Independence, happened to go into
a debating society in Annapolis, and there heard
William Pinckney, who was but an apothecary's
boy. `I do remember an apothecary,' realizing
Shakspeare's description, no doubt. Chase was so
struck with his talents that he advised him on the
spot to study law; and, as Pinckney had no means,
Chase took him into his own house. Henry Clay
made his first effort in a debating society, in Lexington,
Kentucky, I believe—your hailing place,
Willoughby. When Clay rose to speak, instead of
addressing the president of the society, he said `Gentlemen
of the jury.' This shows that Clay often
thought of making a speech before he did make
one; and if he had not often thought of it, he would
not only have been embarrassed at first, but, in all
probability, he would have failed completely. I
tell you what it is, most of us must get our bread
by the wagging of our tongues, and I am for commencing
the practice early. Washington Irving,
in speaking of a woman's tongue—and we may say
it of a man's—says it is the only edged tool that
grows sharper from constant use. Ay, Judge, I see
you smile! You think children should not play
with edged tools. I know it; but remember, we are
apprentices to a trade that requires the use of these
edged tools, and if we would not cut our fingers
with them when old, we must use them when
young. `Words are things;' and in our profession,
it is scarcely saying too much, to assert that they
are every thing.”

The debating society was formed, and gradually
increased until it numbered upwards of a hundred.
The society held its meetings in a very large hall,
over an engine house—“an appropriate place for
spouting,” as Bradshaw was wont to remark—
where they had crowded audiences every public
evening. On every other evening, only, were the
public admitted, because there were many members
who wished to break the ice, but who shrunk
from doing it before a large audience, which might

embarrass them so much as to prevent their proceeding;
an event that is not so likely to occur before
a smaller audience, composed only of members
of the society, with whom the speaker is personally
acquainted; and, if it did occur, the mortification
would not be so great. Besides, it would not redound
to the credit of the society, to have its
members fail in a public attempt; and it is one
of the most disagreeable things in the world, to a
sensitive mind, to witness it. When the society
was first got up, some of the students of the law
were for having it exclusive. But Bradshaw
laughed at the idea. “If you can convince us,
gentlemen,” said he, “that intellect is confined exclusively
to our profession, agreed, and we will have
our debating society a theatre for displaying it, and
we will all be stars. But
There is both rhyme and reason in those two pithy
lines of Churchill, the satirist. Your notion would
be a good subject for his muse, if she would stoop to
it from her supreme dominion. Ay, and genius is
of no profession, either. By Jove, I know a young
blacksmith, round the corner, to whom some of us
will not be able to hold a candle. No, sirs, I am
for having every young man join, who is respectable,
be he who he may, or what he may. Let us
have our society upon republican principles. Let
the majority elect the officers and decide the questions;
and, as a matter of courtesy, on public evenings,
we must invite our audience to vote upon
the merits of the debate. Let our constitution and
by-laws be as simple as can be, so that we may
have no disputes about them: for what is more tedious
than such disputes? Notwithstanding the republican
principles I have just avowed, I was going
to propose that we should put every fellow in Coventry,
who makes a long speech upon constitutions
and by-laws.”

Bradshaw spared no pains to improve himself in
speaking and composition. Though he had not half
the reputation for studious habits that many of his
fellow-students had, yet he thought much more than
any of them. He was not so often seen with a
book or pen in his hand, and he was often caught
in his little room, over the office of the gentleman
with whom he read law, with his arms folded, in
a state of abstraction, or stretched out, apparently
listless, on three or four chairs, or walking up and
down his room, talking to himself; but, generally,
in all these moods, he was unravelling some intricate
question, or repeating the thoughts of some
author in his own language, that he might the more
impress them on his mind; or he was preparing
himself for some discussion before his society, and
making over and over to himself a train of argument,
which, though he put not one word of it on
paper, he, nevertheless, had as pat, as much by
heart, as if he had committed it all to paper, and
then to memory. This is, perhaps, the best way
to study; for then the student carries about with
him ever his intellectual gifts. When he writes a
speech and commits it to memory, in the act of
writing he only seeks to put his thought down, and

in speaking, to pick it up. In this habit, he is apt
to lose or injure his powers of extemporizing—for
the mind is as much influenced by habit as the
body; and having accustomed himself to speak prepared
language, no matter how well he may be
acquainted with his subject, he cannot speak without
that preparation—consequently, his mental exercise,
when speaking, is but an act of memory,
from which the excitement that arises in the creation
of an argument, or even in expressing it, in extemporaneous
language, is banished. This makes
a speaker a mere actor; and, though he expresses
his own thoughts, his mind is a reservoir, and not
a fountain—it has none of the gush and glow, the
sparkling vivacity, and the crystal clearness, of the
spring.

Found, as often as we have said Bradshaw was,
without pen or book, it gave him a reputation rather
for idleness than industry, among those who
did not know him well; a reputation which, with a
Sheridan-like vanity, he was at no pains to contradict;
when the fact was, that in mental industry,
as we have already observed, he equalled any of
his compeers. From such habits of study as Bradshaw's,
many men have obtained a reputation for
idleness. Patrick Henry, for instance; who can doubt,
that when watching for hours his fishing-cork without
even a nibble, or when roaming days through
the woods, that he was forming those bright creations
which astonished his contemporaries. When
Sheridan's friends thought him asleep in bed, he was
in bed, it is true, but was preparing his speech for
the evening in the house. Curran's favourite habit

of study was with a violin in his hand, running
over some of his favourite tunes: those who saw
him indulging his musical taste, just before making
his great efforts, thought, doubtless, he was very
idle, and that his speeches were all miraculous
creations. So they were miraculous creations, but,
as Moore said of Sheridan, “like a skilful priest, he
prepared the miracle of the moment beforehand.”
Much has been said of the extemporaneous reply
of Mr. Webster to Mr. Hayne, in the Senate
of the United States, on Foote's resolutions,—so it
might have been extemporaneous as to language,
but the great constitutional argument which that
speech contains, has been the elaboration of Mr.
Webster's political life.

Bradshaw had every natural advantage to make
an orator:—a fine person, most graceful manners,
one of the most expressive faces in the world, capable
of every variety of expression, and a voice loud
and clear in its high tones, while its lowest were silvery,
and as distinct as Kean's the tragedian, and an
eye like an eagle's. At the table of Mr. Glassman,
who was very fond of theatricals, and who esteemed
acting, in some respects, the sister-art to oratory,
he frequently met the distinguished actor, B—.
Once after dinner, Glassman and B—, recited
different passages from Shakspeare, and they
called on Bradshaw to do the same. With some
diffidence he complied. They were much struck
with his powers, and the tragedian used all his
eloquence to induce him to join the stage.

“Why not,” said he, “you will make much
more money than you possibly can at the bar, and

then the applause of the theatre is as gratifying as
that of the bar.”

Bradshaw did not state his reasons for not complying
with the advice of the tragedian: he, however,
pleased the actor so much, that they became
very intimate. Bradshaw took lessons in oratory
from him, and he derived from his instructions
great practical advantages.

“That's it, that's it,” the tragedian would exclaim,
after Bradshaw had recited for him some of
the best passages of the drama,

So said Pope of his friend Mansfield, and so may
I, with a little change of the line, say of you,

“Be careful—you waste your voice too much:
that is, you too often make it exert its utmost
powers; if you were to perform a tragedy—Richard
the Third, for instance, or Lear—you would
be exhausted before you got into the fifth act, for
which you should husband your energies. In
speaking a speech, you will, perhaps, be more liable
to exhaustion, because you must go on without
a breathing spell. It is execrable to hear a man
speak after his energies are exhausted. Pray you,
avoid it, as Hamlet would say. By the by, that
speech of Hamlet to the players, is the best advice
in the world to your profession as well as to mine.
If I were you, as a speaker, I never would study
a gesture for a particular passage: it is proper in
our profession, but I doubt if it would suit in yours.

On the stage, whether our feelings are in cue or
not, we must go through the part as it is set down,
and, of course, when we come to the affecting passage,
we must use the appropriate gesture. In
this respect the orator has the advantage of the
actor. You are not compelled to be pathetic,
whether your feelings will or not: But we, though
not in the `melting mood,' must assume the feeling,
though we have it not, when we reach that passage
in Othello, where the melting mood is necessary.
You will be careful never to attempt the
pathetic, the awful, the sublime, or even the ridiculous,
but where you feel it. There is such a
sympathy between heart and heart, that the commonest
man in your audience will find you out if
you do. Remember this, that when you have
waked a feeling—an impulse—no matter of what
passion, you can easier pass to another—its very
opposite—than you can call up a feeling from the
dead level. You understand me: I mean that
when your audience are excited, you can easier
make them both laugh and weep, than you could
make them laugh, if they were not excited. I
told you not to prepare a gesture for a particular
passage—you should not. If there is any
imperfection in your gesture—if you are too hurried,
for instance—correct it—correct all such
imperfections, until your gestures impulsively assume
a naturalness: Naturalness! sacrifice any
thing, every thing to nature. I would rather see
a speaker awkward and ungainly, where he felt,
than ever so graceful and appropriate where he
did not feel. Canning, for instance, had thrice the
grace of Brougham, but Brougham produced
much greater effect—was more powerful—that
is, in plain language, he felt deeper what he said.
Some one has said, I forget who, that a gesture
should be `felt, not seen.' That is a just remark.
Oratory is like Pope's description of beauty. It is
not the eye or the brow that we call beauty; and
it is not the tone, the look, the intellect, the gesture—Demosthenes
to the contrary, notwithstanding—that
we call oratory,

Bradshaw applied himself closely to his legal
studies, but not so closely as to neglect polite literature
or general information. On the contrary,
he made himself familiar with all the great English
poets and prose writers: in the interval of his
law studies, he resorted to them as recreation.
He accustomed himself to composition, and occasionally
wrote for the press, not only prose, but
sometimes he attempted poetry, for which he
had a taste. Often, after a long deliberation on
the subject to be discussed at his debating society,
he would write out an argument, pro and
con, on the question, and then go to his society;
and without taking with him a note, or repeating
a line of what he had written, he would enter into
the debate. In this way, not only by the force of
his great natural talents, but by his industry, he
surpassed every member of the society, although
there was a great deal of talent in it, and men
much older than himself. There were some who
detracted from him, it is true; for when was there

high talent that had not detractors? but this was
only with a few members of the society who envied
him: with the great majority, and with the visiters,
he stood without a rival. Cavendish would
often press hard upon him, not in oratory or general
information, nor in powers of language, but in
close argument, and in dry, quaint humour. Willoughby,
in wild declamation, keen remarks, and
odd phraseology, would sometimes produce a strong
impression; and Jekyl, the blacksmith, of whom
Bradshaw spoke—though his pronunciation was
bad, his sentences ungrammatical, and his manner
awkward; and though he possessed comparatively
very little information, yet by the dint of powerful
native talent, to borrow an illustration from his
own craft, he would weld his arguments together
with such sledge-hammer force and directness,
that it often required all Bradshaw's eloquence,
with appropriate quotation, varied knowledge, and
great powers of argumentation, to remove the
impression. Jekyl possessed a remarkably pure
heart and mind,—he had no envy in his composition.
Bradshaw had broken his father's chase,
and drove round to the blacksmith-shop, at which
Jekyl worked as a journeyman, to have it mended.
While he was mending it, Bradshaw entered into
conversation with him, and was pleased. Afterwards,
in his walks, he would often stop in and
converse with Jekyl while at work. In this way
an intimacy grew up between them; and often,
after his day's work, Jekyl might be seen walking
round to the room of Bradshaw, where they would
sit and converse for hours. Bradshaw proposed
Jekyl as a member of their debating society; and
in spite of the opposition of some of the members,
whose aristocracy was offended, he had him elected.
Jekyl had no wit or humour, nor powers of
retort, and was, withal, very sensitive. Some of
the members—and particularly one named Talbot,
who possessed considerable talent, and more malignity—would
frequently ridicule his bad pronunciation
and grammatical errors. The blacksmith
would suffer in silence; for, as we have observed,
he had no talent for reply. On such occasions,
Bradshaw always came to the rescue of his friend:
his indignant eye and withering sarcasm, had silenced
such remarks for some time, when, on one
occasion, Talbot, who had been beaten in the debate
by Jekyl, in reply, was guilty not only of ridiculing
his grammatical errors and bad pronunciation,
but of the mean personality of alluding to his
occupation. Bradshaw rose indignantly—it was a
public debate—and said, “Mr. President, is it necessary
for me here to repeat the well known anecdote
of a celebrated character, who had originally been
a shoemaker, but who rose by the dint of great talents,
and in spite of many obstacles, to distinction
and power, and who was reproached with his former
vocation by a certain person. `Sir,' said he,
in reply, `by my industry, and with what gifts
God gave me, I have arisen to be what I am: if
the gentleman who taunts me with what I was,
had been bred a shoemaker, he would have been
a shoemaker still.' Sir, I will say this for my
friend, the blacksmith, that if some ten or twenty
years hence, the gentleman who has been so courteous
in this debate, should then throw the smithy
in his teeth, he may relate the anecdote which I
have alluded to, with perfect applicability to that
gentleman and to himself.”

Bradshaw uttered this in a feeling and dignified
manner; the whole audience, many of whom were
mechanics, responded to it heartily, with a burst
of applause: no uncommon tribute for Bradshaw
to receive, but which was peculiarly grateful to
the feelings of Jekyl, and humiliating to Talbot;
for they both felt that the sentiment was applauded,
as well as the utterer. Talbot never forgave
Bradshaw; for among the audience were some of
the most fashionable belles and beaux of the city,
his acquaintance, who were in the habit of attending
the public meetings of the society, which was,
in fact, a place of fashionable resort. On Jekyl
it produced as deep an impression, but of a far
different kind. He was a lover, a painfully sensitive
one; and he had brought with him to the debate,
on this evening, the young girl whom he
was wooing, who accompanied his mother and
himself. He was deeply attached, and tremblingly
alive to the issue of his attachment; for the maiden
had not yet been won. Bradshaw's manly and
high, yet courteous bearing, and the promise of a
splendid career, which his efforts at the debating
society had augured for him, already made him
the town talk. This simple incident was, therefore,
remembered by Jekyl with abundant gratitude.
As the assembly broke up, he grasped
Bradshaw convulsively by the hand; but his emotion
would not let him say one word. Bradshaw

caught the beaming eye of the maiden full upon
him. With a quick sagacity he saw how matters
stood—he saw, too, that Jekyl observed her happy
expression, and as he shook the blacksmith's hand,
he whispered to him significantly,

“Go a-head, my dear fellow; `Faint heart never
won fair lady.' Remember, this is both literally
and metaphorically true.” That night Jekyl
took heart, told his love, and was accepted.
If he had sunk beneath the taunt of Talbot, and
it had passed unanswered, would he have been accepted?
Upon such slight things depend our weal
or wo. Suspecting Jekyl's love affair, put Bradshaw
in mind of Selman's; and, as he left the debating
society, with Cavendish and Willoughby,
and took an arm of each, on their way to Fleming's,
he observed—

“As Selman never takes part in our debates,
and as Miss Penelope frequently attends, we must
be true to our conspiracy of helping him on, and
make him president of the society. What say you?”

“Ha! ha!—good!” said Kentuck. “I thought
this evening, as Miss Penelope has such admiration
for oratory, that if Selman does not come
out, he might hurt his suit. It's a first rate idea
to make him president, for then he will not be
expected to speak; and, as he can't, it is just the
thing.”

Not long after this debate, one was held on the
question,—Whether woman was equal to man in
intellect? Bradshaw maintained the superiority
of man's, though he thought they were of a different
order: that man's was like his frame, strong,

towering, muscular,—and that woman's was like
hers, delicate, yielding, graceful; that she expressed
best the thoughts that develope and cultivate
the affections, and tell of their gentle sympathies
and fond, dream-like hopes—that she best
controlled the youthful mind, and taught it, at her
knee, those duties which mould the after being,
and make it what God intended;—that he expressed
best the dark and daring, and ambitious
emotions, those of power, of mastering passion in
a wayward nature—that he was meant to govern
his kind, as he had governed in all ages of the
world. He concluded by saying, woman had the
best heart and man the best head. Many of the
sex attended the debate, and Talbot was the zealous
advocate not only of their equality, but, in
his zeal, and inspired by their presence, he proclaimed
them superior to man, and pronounced a
high-wrought eulogium on them to that effect.
While he was speaking, Bradshaw wrote the following
epigram on him, and handed it to Cavendish,
who was mischievous enough, when Talbot
took his seat, to read it aloud. It caused a great
laugh at Talbot's expense, and rankled in his
spirit.