In her biography of the future Prime Minister, Winston Churchill as I Knew Him (Eyre & Spottiswoode and Collins, 1965), H. H. Asquith’s daughter Lady Violet Bonham Carter described her first meeting with the great man, at a dinner party, in 1906, when she was 19 years old. Churchill asked her if she thought that words had a magic and a music quite independent of their meaning. She certainly thought so, and quoted Keats as an example:
Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn…
Churchill had never heard The Ode to a Nightingale, but he was entranced, and went on to learn all Keats’ Odes by heart, and then of course, characteristically, to recite them back, mercilessly, verbatim.
I’ve never been convinced by this notion that the power of language can be divorced from its meaning. On the contrary, Charm’d magic casements are so powerful precisely because so evocative, the conjured imagery so intense. The idea of relishing language independent of its meaning I find rather dangerous. I think we should resist the temptation to value something that sounds mellifluous, even although it is gobbledegook. You can make any piece of nonsense sound sensible, if your accent is posh enough. This week I’ve greatly enjoyed reading Miriam Margolyes’ autobiography This Much is true (John Murray, 2021) and its follow-up Oh Miriam! (John Murray 2023). The actor, perhaps most renowned for her potty mouth and outrageous anecdotes, was educated at Oxford High School and then Newnham College Cambridge, and she understands very well that one reason that she has gone so far in life is that she has “perfect vowels”. Sometimes if I hear somebody with a cut-glass accent espouse a questionable piece of dogma, I subject the utterance to what I call “the stairheid patois test”, repeat it in broad Glaswegian, and hear the rickety edifice of verbiage crumble and collapse. Language devoid of meaning is worthless. So unlike Lady Violet, I would have denied Churchill’s assertion. But I would have conceded that oratory can exert such magical, even diabolical influence. Some people can hypnotise an audience by cadence and charisma, even supposing they were reciting the telephone directory.
Churchill of course went on to become an orator, after a fashion. It didn’t come naturally to him; he had to work at it. He had a speech impediment and lisped his sibilants. He turned this to his advantage by cultivating a measured, drawling delivery. He wasn’t quick on his feet, nor adept at repartee. Rather he mobilised heavy artillery. He once experienced a mental block in the House of Commons and dried up altogether, and had to sit down. He feared he was going to be overcome by the same pathology – at the time termed “general paralysis of the insane” – that had prematurely struck down his father Randolph. Ever after, Winston wrote his speeches down word for word in verse form, and memorised them.
We shall fight on the beaches
We shall fight on the landing grounds
We shall fight in the fields
And in the streets.
We shall fight in the hills…
That is perhaps his most famous peroration. It is in fact so famous, that it has become sentimentalised and widely misunderstood. It is thought of as an inspirational rallying cry to resistance, which it certainly is. But it is not devoid of exactitude of meaning. It is a prediction of an overwhelming invasion, literally a blow-by-blow account of an ordered retreat (note how the fighting theatres move steadily inland until the towns are occupied and the resistance is house-by-house), then a resurgence, taking to the hills and adopting the tactics of guerrilla warfare. Churchill is telling the nation, without softening the blow, how it’s going to be. The most remarkable thing about Churchill, his greatest achievement, was that he managed to persuade everybody to go along with him, when anybody in his right mind would have sided with Lord Halifax and sued for peace.
Two questions we must ask of our orators. Is what they are saying true? And are they sincere? If what they are saying is untrue, then it’s a lie; and if what they are saying is insincere, then it is humbug. But in any case, are there any orators left? Rishi Sunak? Sir Keir Starmer? I was a bit underwhelmed by Mr Sunak’s sudden appearance at the No. 10 podium on Friday evening, after George Galloway won the Rochdale by-election. Usually when the Downing Street podium comes out, a world-shattering announcement follows, such as a Prime Ministerial resignation, or a declaration of war. Mr Sunak regretted the election to Parliament of “Galloway” – he was not granted the courtesy of “Mr”. Normally when somebody is elected to Parliament, he or she is congratulated, even by their most vociferous opponent. Mr Sunak also regretted some, but not all ongoing street demonstrations, perhaps as exemplified by the heckler just outside the big gates, in Whitehall. Apparently we are all tearing ourselves apart, but I didn’t get the sense that the Prime Minister’s speech was going to draw us together. Meanwhile Sir Keir for the most part avoids oratory. One has the impression he just wants to get to the general election without making a Big Gaffe. Apparently the election is his to win (just like Neil Kinnock back in 1992). It’ll be a shoo-in. I’m not convinced. I wouldn’t be surprised if the shenanigans last week in the House of Commons involving the Gaza ceasefire debate delivered him a delayed-action, but nonetheless fatal blow. Sir Keir’s demeanour reminds me of that of Hilary Clinton at the run-up to the 2016 US Presidential election. Desperation is not a vote-winner. A couplet from Siegfried Sassoon comes to mind:
Somehow I always thought you’d get done in,
Because you were so desperate keen to live.
Now Mr Galloway is an orator. He is currently the most powerful speaker in British politics. Irrespective of whether you agree with his views, he is utterly formidable. The remarkable debate between him and the late Christopher Hitchens, concerning the Iraq War, which took place at Baruch University, New York, in September 2005, has with some justification been called the debate of the century. And on the same side of the Pond, another remarkable orator, again irrespective of his views, is Donald Trump. He can mesmerise a crowd. That is why it is so important to listen carefully to what people are saying, and to analyse it in the cold light of day. Give it the stairheid patois test.
But close textual analysis is not currently flavour of the month. Rather you can download instant opinions from Social Media, and get some piece of AI software to package it for you. Nowadays you could probably complete a liberal arts degree without one single, original idea ever crossing your mind. Dr Leavis (Ms Margolyes is a fan) must be spinning in his grave.
jamescalumcampbell 