remembers Moore's comparison of the Lord Castlereagh of his time to a
pump, which up and down its awkward arm doth sway,

'And coolly spout, and spout, and spout away,
In one weak, washy, everlasting flood.'

This has always been a stock quotation to use against oratory of the
'dreary' and 'dilatory' order. Then, Brougham had the good sense to
recognise his own sins in respect to 'much speaking.' _Punch_ made
someone ask himself 'if Brougham thinks as much as he talks;' but the
Lord Chancellor removed the pungency from gibes of that sort by writing
his own epitaph, in which he declares that

'My fate a moral teaches,
The ark in which my body lies
Would not contain one-half my speeches.'

It was asserted of Lord George Bentinck that true sportsmen 'loved his
prate,' because his speech recalled the 'four-mile course,' his
arguments the 'feather-weight.' One is reminded, in this connection, of
the preacher of whom it was observed that he 'so lengthily his subject
did pursue,' that it was feared 'he had, indeed, eternity in view.' And,
perhaps, a long discourse is none the more acceptable when it is
palpable to the hearers that the discourser has committed it to memory,
and is bound to go on to the bitter end. Possibly this adds to the
feeling of exasperation. Nevertheless, there are those who must learn
their speeches by heart, or else not speak at all. As Luttrell contended
that Lord Dudley had said of himself:

'In vain my affections the ladies are seeking;
If I give up my heart, there's an end to my speaking.'

However, it is, perhaps, scarcely fair of laymen to dwell too sternly on
the joy which so many legislators seem to feel in hearing their own
voices. Man is a talking animal, and can 'hold forth' outside the Houses
of Parliament as well as in. And though in the term 'man' we may include
woman, let us give no countenance to the old calumny, that the fairer
and weaker is also the more talkative sex. There are some old lines to
the effect that Nature wisely forbade a beard to grow on woman's chin,

'For how could she be shaved, whate'er the skill,
Whose tongue would never let her chin be still?'

There is also a certain epitaph on an old maid,

'Who from her cradle talk'd till death,
And ne'er before was out of breath,'

and of whom it was opined that in heaven she'd be unblest, because she
loathed a place of rest. But these flouts and sneers are as cheap as
they are venerab