it. The most practised hand will not find it easy to "go one better
than" Macaulay in a swingeing trope. It is a fascinating literary
artifice, and it has fascinated many to their ruin. In feebler hands,
it degenerates into what in London journalistic slang is known as
"telegraphese." A pocket encyclopaedia and a copious store of
adjectives have enabled many a youth to roar out brilliant articles "as
gently as a sucking dove." But all men of power have their imitators,
and are open to parody and spurious coining. Now, Macaulay, however
brilliant and kaleidoscopic, is always using his own vast reading, his
own warm imagination, his unfailing fecundity, and his sterling good
sense.

Turn to the style of the passage--it is perfectly pellucid in meaning,
rings on the ear like the crack of a rifle, is sonorous, rich, and
swift. One can fancy the whole passage spoken by an orator; indeed it
is difficult to resist the illusion that it was "declaimed" before it
was written. We catch the oratorial tags and devices, the repeated
phrase, the incessant antithesis, the alternate rise and fall of
eloquent speech. It is declamation--fine declamation--but we miss the
musical undertones, the subtle involutions, the unexpected bursts, and
mysterious cadences of really great written prose. The term "the
Republic of Venice" is repeated three times in three lines: the term
"the Papacy" is repeated three times in two lines. Any other writer
would substitute a simple "it" for most of these; and it is difficult
to see how the paragraph would lose. The orator aids his hearers by
constant repetition of the same term; the writer avoids this lest he
prove monotonous. The short sentences of four or five words interposed
to break the torrent--the repetition of the same words--the see-saw of
black and white, old and young, base and pure--all these are the
stock-in-trade of the rhetorician, not of the master of written prose.