Chapter III: Part 3

Pembroke Lodge stood in a bit of the old forest that had been enclosed with its grand old oaks and bracken. The grounds were lovely at all seasons, but especially in May, with their wealth of white lilac, laburnum, hawthorn, and wild hyacinths, the blue of which under the tender green of the trees made an enchanting sight. The house stood on rising ground and commanded lovely views of the Thames valley. The flower-garden in its setting of greenery was a delight. The lawn under the spreading cedar was the scene of many enjoyable gatherings and memorable talks, for, as has well been said, Pembroke Lodge, while in the occupation of the Russells, was “a haunt of ancient peace as well as of modern fellowship.” All who were distinguished in English politics or English literature, with eminent foreigners of every walk in life, would gather there on Sunday afternoons in summer, and from 1847 onwards a long stream of celebrities passed the portals of Pembroke Lodge, which, while it was the scene of an ideal family life, dispensed also much pleasant hospitality. Although Lady John loved a secluded life among her family, she fully realised that it would not do to go on long cut off from the world and its ways, and from the blessing of the society of real friends; she knew, too, that as things are ordered it was impossible to enjoy that blessing without some intermixture of wearisome acquaintance. But she was occasionally cast down by the weight of the tiresome conventions imposed on such hospitality. “Why,” she asks, “cannot human nature find out and rejoice in blessings of civilisation and society without encumbering them with petty etiquettes and fashions and forms which deprive them of half their value? Human nature strives and struggles and gives life itself for political freedom, while it forges social chains and fetters for itself.”

One day Baroness Bunsen would drive with the Russells from their London house in Chesham Place to Kew, make the tour of the gardens and hothouses, and then go to Pembroke Lodge to lunch, where the other guests included the Duke of Wellington, the Duc de Broglie, Lord and Lady Palmerston, and Lord Lansdowne. Indeed, the list of their guests at different times would fill several pages: Thiers and Garibaldi, Baron and Baroness Bunsen, Macaulay, Froude and Lecky, Thackeray and Dickens, Thomas Moore and Rogers, Tennyson and Browning, Mrs. Beecher Stowe, Longfellow and Lowell, Sir Richard Owen, John Tyndall and Herbert Spencer, Frederic Harrison and Justin McCarthy, Sydney Smith, Dean Stanley, and Mr. Stopford Brooke--every shade of opinion, every type of mind, was at one time or another represented.

It will be clear that Lady John was never at any period of her life a leader of political society in the sense in which Lady Palmerston was. Lady John had neither the temperament, the inclination, nor the health required for such a rôle in the world of politics. Some are of opinion that Lord John Russell’s position as a statesman suffered, that he allowed himself to be too much absorbed by his domestic affairs, and that the illnesses of his wife and the care of his young family weighed too heavily upon him. This is as it may be, but the ideal domestic life of the Russells did not prevent a perfect sympathy and understanding between husband and wife in the larger affairs in which the great statesman was engaged. Lady John possessed his fullest confidence, and shared in all his hopes of progress and improvement. She could, on occasion, give him shrewd advice. As regards her own personal attitude to politics, she cared much more for the great questions of the day themselves than for the details and personalities belonging to them. She much disliked the conversation of those whom she dubbed the “regular hardened lady politicians,” who were chiefly concerned with such details and personalities, and quickly lost sight of the great problems themselves. Lady John preferred the humdrum domestic talk of ordinary womenkind. But she was not wholly condemned to endure the weariness of political discussion by the wrong people in the wrong way, or to listen to domestic chatter. Opportunities of discussing pleasanter topics often occurred. Her sympathetic charm, her receptive mind, her intellectual equipment, enabled her to gather round her friends and acquaintances of a kind that almost realised the ideal of social intercourse. She did not, as is a common practice with hostesses occupying a prominent position in society, issue an invitation to a celebrated writer or artist or scholar only when a big entertainment was toward. Such men formed an integral part of the Pembroke Lodge circle. Rogers was a frequent guest, and used to declare that he would rather share a crust with the Russells in their paradise than sup with Lucullus. Thackeray read them his lectures on Sterne and Goldsmith, and Dickens often spent the day, going to luncheon and remaining to dinner.

During the session some evenings had to be spent in town, and some social functions had to be attended. All the more enjoyable, then, were the evenings spent quietly in the domestic circle. Reading aloud--they would each read in turn--was then their chief recreation. Among the books they read were Lamartine’s _History of the Girondins_, Mackintosh’s _History of the Revolution_, Prescott’s _History of Peru_, Cowper’s _Task_, Wordsworth’s _Excursion_--reading that nowadays would scarcely come under the head of relaxation; so it is satisfactory to know that they cried over _David Copperfield_ until they were ashamed.

Lord John’s Premiership was not lacking in excitement. The Irish famine gave natural cause for anxiety throughout 1847. In February 1848 came the news of the deposition of Louis-Philippe. The Chartist movement was gaining ground in England, and fears of a serious outbreak were entertained. The Chartists were preparing a great demonstration for 10th April, when, after assembling on Kennington Common, they were to march to the House of Commons to present a petition. There was much discussion as to where the Prime Minister’s wife would be safest on the fateful Monday (10th April 1848). It was finally decided that Downing Street would be best. But after all nothing happened, the monster Chartist meeting dispersed quietly at the persuasion of its promoters, and the services of the 150,000 special constables, among them Louis Napoleon (afterwards Napoleon III.), were not called into requisition. Lord Palmerston, writing next day to the English ambassador in Paris, reported that the Chartists made a poor figure, and their leaders were thoroughly frightened to find the streets swarming with men of all ranks and classes blended together to defend law and property. The Prime Minister and his wife spent the Tuesday in receiving congratulations “without end.” Four days later their second son was born.

Irish affairs continued very disquieting through the session, and the repose for which Lady John was ever longing seemed very far off. At the end of August she accompanied her husband on a brief visit to Ireland. They were much interested in the newly completed tubular bridge over the Conway; they walked through it, proceeding by train to Bangor, where they spent the night. Next day they crossed the Menai Straits, driving over the Suspension Bridge, took train to Holyhead whence they reached Kingstown by steamer, and finally arrived at the Viceregal Lodge, Dublin. Thus, in 1848, a journey to Ireland was something of an adventure, and one not to be undertaken lightly. They returned by way of Scotland, landing at Greenock, visited Oban and the Trossachs, and of course Minto, and by October were back again at Pembroke Lodge. Next month they received a visit from the exiled Louis-Philippe, who, with his family, was spending some weeks at the Star and Garter, Richmond; he gave them an account of his “chute,” apparently quite innocent of the unconscious humour of such a narrative in the house of the Minister he had been so proud of outwitting.

In July 1849 a third son was born, and in August Lady John was able to carry out a project she had long had at heart. Both she and her husband had from the first taken great interest in the affairs of the inhabitants of Petersham, the little village at their gates. They had been greatly concerned at the lack of means of education for the children, and now succeeded in actually founding there a little school. It had small beginnings; it was first held in a room in the village, but in 1852 a proper building was erected. The school remained a great interest to the Russells, and many a family birthday was celebrated with a tea to the school-children under the cedar on the lawn, followed by dancing.

At the opening of the new session Lady John was in London, greatly dissatisfied as she always was when she found her time filled with visiting and parties and general entertaining, yet recognising that her troubles, such as they were, were the result of many blessings. But compensation came in the shape of an autumn visit to Minto and a Christmas at Woburn, where her boy joined in the amateur theatricals, speaking, in the character of a page, the epilogue to the play performed.

The autumn session of 1851 was spent in Wales. The next year Lord John was out of office. From February to December 1852 the Tories were in power under Lord Derby. The Whigs came back again under Lord Aberdeen, and for a short time (Dec. 1852-Feb. 1853) Lord John was at the Foreign Office.

The year 1853 was marked by various domestic events. Lady John’s daughter, Mary Agatha, was born in March. In May Lord John’s stepson, Lord Ribblesdale, was married to Miss Mure of Caldwell; and in June his step-daughter, Isabel, married Mr. Warburton. In July occurred the death of Lady Minto, Lady John’s mother. During these months the world of politics had been going its way. In April both husband and wife expressed their delight in Gladstone’s budget, and it seemed that after the excursions and alarms of 1851 and 1852 there was a chance of things going quietly and prosperously. But by the autumn the circumstances that led to the Crimean War became acute, and a holiday in Scotland was suddenly broken up by the necessity for Lord John’s presence in London, where his wife joined him in October.

In the session of 1854 Lord John Russell found himself obliged to withdraw his Reform Bill. Lady John’s letters well show her feeling towards political life, and form indeed a comment on the dangers and difficulties of that career for sincere and disinterested persons. Official friends made it their business to go to see her and to lay before her all the arguments for dropping the Bill, so that she might repeat them to her husband. She was assured that her husband had such a quantity of spare character that it could bear a little damaging. Her notion was that many members were afraid of losing their seats by dissolution, and many others hated any sort of Reform Bill and were glad of an excuse to stifle it. She almost despaired of her country, and wondered how she could prevent her boys growing up cowardly and selfish. But she listened to all, and said nothing, “because there is not time to begin at the first rudiments of morality, and there would be no use in anything higher up.” Another time she wrote: “Politics have never yet been what they ought to be: men who would do nothing mean themselves do not punish meanness in others when it can serve their party or their country, and excuse their connivance on that ground.”

When Lord John resigned office in 1855, after his mission as British Plenipotentiary at the Vienna Conference, his wife disapproved his action of writing to Lord Aberdeen, instead of announcing his intention in the usual way at a meeting of the Cabinet. She did her best to persuade him, if he would not do that, at least to tell some of his colleagues before writing to Lord Aberdeen, but without avail.

For four years now Lord John was out of office, and his wife was therefore less burdened with anxieties and irksome duties. The autumn and winter of 1856-57 were spent on the Continent. A visit was paid to Lady John’s sister, Lady Mary Abercromby, at The Hague, where her husband was British Minister. They went on to Switzerland, settling in a villa near Lausanne. At the end of September they crossed the Simplon, and after a few days’ halt at Turin, where they made the personal acquaintance of Cavour, proceeded to Florence and took up their residence for the winter in the Villa Capponi outside the Porta San Gallo. It was Lady John’s first visit to Florence, and it can readily be imagined that she quickly fell under its charm. Besides the natural beauty of the situation of the city of flowers and its wonderful buildings and art treasures, Lady John thoroughly enjoyed the society there, finding in it more cordiality and ease than in London. There were dancing and amateur theatricals for the young people, and for their parents intercourse with the men who were working for Italy’s independence, men who would “greatly dare and greatlier persevere,” and who became welcome guests at Pembroke Lodge when they visited England.

It is beyond the scope of this little sketch to describe the large part played by Lord John Russell in the making of Italy, but it is quite certain that his wife’s enthusiasm in the cause infected him, and urged him to action. Although Lady John was not inspired to write a “Casa Guidi (or rather a Villa Capponi) Windows” her championship of the cause of Italian liberty was as warm as that of Mrs. Browning or of Swinburne, and it has been told before, how in 1859, when Lord John was Foreign Secretary under Palmerston, the finishing stroke that gave Italy her independence was really due to Lady John’s agency. Lord John understood through Cavour that Garibaldi would only retard matters if he followed up his success in Sicily by landing in Naples. As a matter of fact this was not so, Cavour being anxious for matters to come to a head without delay. Lacaita, an Italian politician who had become naturalised in England in 1855, was asked by Cavour to tell Lord John the true state of affairs so that he might use his influence with France that Garibaldi’s expedition should go forward. Lacaita immediately called on Lord John, and found him engaged with the French and Neapolitan ambassadors and unable to see him at the moment. He then insisted on seeing Lady John, who was ill in bed, told her his business, and she sent down a little pencilled note to her husband asking him to come to her at once. He arrived at her bedside immediately, in a great state of alarm, thinking she had suddenly become worse. And so England did nothing to hinder Garibaldi, and Victor Emmanuel was saluted as King of Italy in October 1860.

In 1861 Lord John accepted a peerage. He was sixty-nine years of age and had been forty-seven years in the House of Commons. He took the title of Earl Russell, as he desired to retain the name by which he had been so long known. In the spring of 1864 Garibaldi lunched at Pembroke Lodge. It was a lovely sunny day, Richmond was _en fête_, the Park full of people, and the approach to Pembroke Lodge was lined by the school-children waving flags and cheering. Lady Russell recorded in her diary that they had much interesting conversation with him, and that there was simple dignity in every word he uttered.

On Palmerston’s death in 1865 Earl Russell once again became Prime Minister. In June 1866 the Ministry were defeated, Russell resigned and was never again in office. The autumn and winter (1866-67) were spent in Italy. While in Venice the Russells witnessed the entry of Victor Emmanuel by water as the King of all Italy, and felt the thrill that went through thousands and thousands of Italian hearts as the Sovereign passed before them in his gondola.

The next years passed calmly and pleasantly. From October 1869 to April 1870 the Russells took the Villa Garbarino at San Remo, enjoying the quiet life, the beautiful scenery, the delightful climate, and the pleasant society of English friends staying there or merely passing through, and of some of the Italian residents. Strangely enough their landlord, the Marchese Garbarino, was a great patriot, and had decorated his drawing-room ceiling with portraits of Cavour, Garibaldi, Mazzini, and Lord John Russell. Among their visitors were the Crown Princess of Prussia and Princess Louis of Hesse. Lady John was delighted with their informal ways; she found them as merry and as simple as if they had had no royalty about them, and she was especially struck with their wide liberal opinions on education.

On their way back Lord and Lady Russell halted at Paris and stayed ten days at the English Embassy. They dined at the Tuileries with the Emperor Napoleon and the Empress Eugénie. At the dinner the Emperor told his guests of a riddle he had asked the Empress: “Quelle est la différence entre toi et un miroir?” She replied that she did not know. “Le miroir réfléchit; tu ne réfléchis pas,” explained Napoleon with more wit than politeness. But his Consort retorted, “Et quelle est la différence entre _toi_ et un miroir?” The Emperor could not tell. “Le miroir est poli, et tu ne l’es pas,” was the witty answer to that riddle. In the course of their visit the Russells met many distinguished persons.

On her return to England and English society, Lady Russell was struck with the superiority of its best to that of other nations, but at the same time she found that there was in all classes in this country a larger proportion of vulgarity--ostentatious, aristocratic, and coarse. She was much disturbed by the Franco-German War; considered France was in the wrong at first, but that both France and Germany were in the wrong after Sedan, when peace ought to have been made. She hated war, and looked forward to a day, scarcely closer now than it was in 1870, when an arsenal would be an object of curiosity, and people would thank God that they did not live in an age “when sovereigns and rulers could command man to destroy his brother-man.”

The autumn was spent in Switzerland and the winter at Cannes. Lord Russell was beginning to fail. He had no special complaint, no pain or chronic ailment, but old age was visibly weakening both body and mind. He was able (in 1872) to go down to the House of Lords for an important debate, and to give the Presidential address to the Historical Society, but writing, walking, reading, talking easily tired him. Until his death on 28th May 1878, Lady Russell’s time was chiefly occupied in tending him. And these last years were filled with sorrows. Besides having to look on at the decay of her husband’s mental and physical powers, she had to mourn in 1874 the death of her daughter-in-law, Lady Amberley, and her little daughter. The summer of that year was spent at Tennyson’s house at Aldworth, near Haslemere, placed at their disposal by the poet. In January 1876 Lord Amberley died at the early age of thirty-three, and his two sons came to live permanently at Pembroke Lodge with their grandparents. On all these sad occasions Queen Victoria wrote touching letters of condolence to Lady Russell. On 28th May 1878, after thirty-seven years of happy married life, Lord Russell died. Burial in the Abbey was offered, but, in accordance with his wish, he was buried in the family vault at Chenies, where his first wife, his son, his daughter-in-law, and his granddaughter were already laid.

Lady Russell survived her husband for twenty years, but the “golden joys of perfect companionship which made the hours fly” when they were together were over. Yet in the children who remained to her she found consolation, and in the care of her grandchildren she had the occupation and interests that exactly suited her. The Queen permitted her to remain at Pembroke Lodge, the home that had seen her joys and sorrows and hopes, the chances and changes of her life, and that was bound up with innumerable memories, so that she was still able to look after the school at Petersham. Some verses written in February 1879, on the occasion of her stepdaughter Georgiana’s[23] birthday, from which I may quote a few lines, sufficiently indicate the state of her mind:

“Hushed now is the music! and hushed be my weeping
For days that return not and light that hath fled.
No more from their rest may I summon the sleeping,
Or linger to gaze on the years that are dead.

Fadeth my dream--and my day is declining,
But love lifts the gloamin’ and smooths the rough way.”

Many visits were paid at this time to her son Rollo, who had bought a house near Hindhead, in Surrey. The wild scenery and the heather-covered moors reminded Lady Russell of her native country. Her interest in politics was very keen, and she supported Mr. Gladstone’s Irish policy with sympathy and approval. Her letters and journals are full of defence of Home Rule, and in 1893 she would have made short work of the House of Lords, for she writes in almost prophetic tones: “I would simply declare it, by Act of the House of Commons, injurious to the best interests of the nation and for ever dissolved. Then it may either show its attachment to the Constitution by giving its assent to its own annihilation, or oblige us to break through the worn-out Constitution and declare their assent unnecessary.”

Lady Russell’s health, never very robust, began to fail about 1892; in 1897 she had an illness from which she only partially recovered. Early in January 1898 she suffered from influenza; bronchitis supervened, and she died at the age of eighty-three on the 17th. She was buried on the 21st at Chenies, beside her husband.

A memorial to her, erected in the Free Church, Richmond, the place of worship she attended in her later years, by a few personal friends, was unveiled by Frederic Harrison on 14th July 1900.

A word may fitly be said here in regard to Lady John Russell’s religion. Brought up in the Presbyterian Church of Scotland, she became in the latter part of her life a Unitarian. She disapproved of any doctrine that ascribed to the clergy spiritual functions or privileges different from those of other men. She shared her husband’s dislike of the Oxford movement. All her written and oral utterances on the subject of religion prove that for her it meant love both of God and man. Once in conversation Herbert Spencer assured her that the prospect of annihilation had no terrors for him, and Lady Russell confesses that she was thinking all the time that without immortality life was “all a cheat, and without a Father in heaven, right and wrong, love, conscience, joy, sorrow, are words without a meaning, and the Universe, if governed at all, is governed by a malignant spirit who gives us hopes and aspirations never to be fulfilled, affections to be wasted, a thirst for knowledge never to be quenched.” In those thoughts we may read her Confession of Faith.

She was always for tolerance in religion, and even encouraged independence of mind in such matters in her children, for she recognised that the voice of God might not sound the same to the child as it did to the father and mother, and that a child should never be afraid to speak freely to its parents. The only book she ever published--though her letters and journals and the occasional verses written for family events show literary aptitude and something more--was _Family Worship_ (1876), a small volume of selections from the Bible and prayers for everyday use.

Lady John Russell used her very considerable intellectual gifts not for herself but for others, for her husband, her children, her friends. Her mind was intensely receptive and ever eager for information. Thinking always more of others than of herself, she could throw herself into their thoughts and feelings. Although her lot had been thrown in the world’s most crowded ways, she was unworldliness itself, and she seems to have had little belief in the value of experience. When her eldest son, Lord Amberley, became engaged to be married at the age of twenty-one, she owned that she might have wished him to wait till he was a little older, but she continued:

“On the other hand, there is something very delightful in his marrying while heart and mind are fresh and innocent and unworldly, and I even add inexperienced--for I am not over-fond of experience. I think it just as often makes people less wise as more wise.”

Scattered through her letters and diaries are many wise reflections, and many pointed observations on the great people she knew. Of Disraeli, when she met him in 1858, she said he was a sad flatterer, and less agreeable than so able a man of such varied pursuits ought to be. Speaking of Gladstone’s visit to Scotland in November 1879, she said: “There is always something that makes me sad in such tremendous hospitality.” Of a book by her sister-in-law, the _Life and Letters of Sir Gilbert Elliot, First Earl of Minto_, she wrote: “There are no lies in it, and therefore you must not expect a great sale.”

She thought much of the position of women, and although as early as 1870 she earnestly wished for legal and social equality for them, she could not shut her eyes to what woman had already been, “the equal, if not the superior, of man in all that is highest and noblest and loveliest.” She strongly disapproved of setting the sexes against one another, and considered that equal justice should be done to both without any spirit of antagonism.

Lady John Russell herself is an abiding example of the best type of woman, quick to sympathise, ready to counsel, who, while admiring her husband as a statesman and giving him every assistance in his public career, admired the man more than the politician. After the birth of their eldest son, she wrote:

“Millions thy patriot voice attend,
Mine, only mine, thy gentler tone;
With thee in blissful gaze to bend
This flow’ret o’er is mine alone.”

It was the quiet, retired life she loved and preferred. Sir Henry Taylor met her in 1852--she was approaching forty--for the first time since her girlhood, when he had known her very well indeed. Of their meeting he wrote: “I recollect some years ago, in going through the heart of the city, somewhere behind Cheapside, to have come upon the courtyard of an antique house, with grass and flowers and green trees growing as quietly as if it was the garden of a farmhouse in Northumberland. Lady John reminds me of it.” The words fitly sum up Lady Russell’s character.

IV

LADY PALMERSTON

“Full of vivacity, she surprises and interests; she finds
her chief pleasure in conversing with persons of worth and
reputation, and this not so much to be known to them, as to
know them.”

Lady Palmerston was one of the favourites of fortune. Born of a distinguished family, sister of one Prime Minister and wife of another, the trusted confidante of both, endowed by nature with beauty and charm, with keen intelligence and sprightly wit, she was a queen of society from eighteen to eighty, and for the last thirty years of that period an important factor, through her husband, in the great political affairs of the world.

_After Swinton_]

Emily Mary Lamb was born in 1787. She was the only daughter of Peniston, first Viscount Melbourne, by his wife, Elizabeth Milbanke, a remarkable woman who exercised a great influence over the members of her family and of her immediate circle. Lord Byron had great respect and admiration for her. “If she had been a few years younger,” he used to say, “what a fool she would have made of me had she thought it worth her while.” As it was, she remained a valuable and most agreeable friend to him. Emily Lamb’s brother William, who was later, as the second Lord Melbourne, to play so great a part in his country’s history, was eight years her senior. Her education was chiefly directed to perfecting her in those accomplishments that would add to her charm and gracefulness, and render her fit to take her place in society. To dance well, to sing, and to play some musical instrument, to read aloud in a pleasantly intelligent manner, to have knowledge enough of books to be able to converse easily on most subjects, to write a letter in a clear hand and with grace of expression, to understand the use of the needle and the keeping of simple accounts, would be deemed sufficient. All this could be accomplished by a governess of modern attainments, but the best education of girls highly placed in society was obtained from the conversation of those around them, of the distinguished men and women who frequented their parents’ houses, and that sort of education Emily Lamb had in perfection. The young people of that day had a merry time. At Brocket, the Melbourne’s country house, there were plenty of outdoor amusements and occupations; the girls did not play hockey and cricket like their twentieth-century descendants, but they rode and hunted, fished and walked. In the early years of the nineteenth century there were the new dances, waltzes and quadrilles, to be learned, and Emily Lamb must have joined the parties given at Devonshire House or in her own home, Melbourne House, for the purpose of practising them. They would assemble at three o’clock in the afternoon at what was called a “morning” dance, with a cold dinner laid in one of the back drawing-rooms. The Tango teas of the twentieth century are not quite such an innovation as has been supposed.

In those days girls married young, and on 21st July 1805 Emily Lamb was married to the fifth Earl Cowper. Though only eighteen she at once took her place as one of the leaders of society. The others who with her ruled the world of fashion were Lady Tankerville, Lady Jersey, and Lady Willoughby. They all lived to be over eighty, and were friends to the last. These ladies had such power as leaders of society that it was said they could even get an important debate in the House postponed if one of them had fixed a grand dinner on that evening. Lady Cowper was beautiful, intelligent, and accomplished, and soon became the most popular of the Lady Patronesses of Almack’s, the most exclusive and brilliant of fashionable assemblies. When the number of hostesses entertaining on a large scale was comparatively small, need was felt of some way of meeting more often, and so in 1764 a man known as William Almack built a suite of Assembly Rooms in King Street, St. James’s,[24] where for a subscription of ten guineas a series of weekly balls were given for twelve weeks. But only those who knew the saints who guarded its heaven could pass through “Almack’s holy gate.” A contemporary writer thus describes the Committee which ruled affairs at Almack’s, and bestowed happiness by granting the vouchers of admission, or despair by withholding them, as:

“That most distinguished and despotic conclave, composed of their High Mightinesses the Ladies Patronesses of the balls at Almack’s, the rulers of fashion, the arbiters of taste, the leaders of _ton_, and the makers of manners, whose sovereign sway over ‘the world’ of London has long been established on the firmest basis, whose decrees are laws, and from whose judgment there is no appeal.”

The Committee was presided over by Lady Jersey, and included, besides Lady Cowper, the Ladies Castlereagh, Sefton, and Willoughby, and the Princesses Esterhazy and Lieven. Almack’s was the “seventh heaven” of the fashionable world, and people would almost sell their souls to gain admission. Its exclusiveness will be understood when it is realised that of the three hundred officers of the Foot Guards only six were admitted.[25] Quadrilles were first danced there in 1815. The rules as to punctuality and the costume to be worn, especially by the gentlemen, were extraordinarily strict, and had to be obeyed by all, without respect of person. One of the rules, that seems, however, to have been relaxed later, was that no one was to be admitted after 11 p.m. One night shortly after its enactment that hour had already struck when an attendant announced that the Duke of Wellington was at the door. “What time is it?” asked Lady Jersey. “Seven minutes after eleven, your ladyship.” She paused a moment, and then said with emphasis and distinctness, “Give my compliments--give Lady Jersey’s compliments to the Duke of Wellington, and say that she is very glad that the first enforcement of the rule of exclusion is such that hereafter no one can complain of its application. He cannot be admitted.” This occurred in 1819. Lady Jersey is described in Disraeli’s _Sybil_, under the name of Lady St. Julians, as one of the great political ladies who “think they can govern the world by what they call their social influences.” Almack’s made a very brilliant scene: the halls were large, beautifully lighted, and the music and the floor of the best. All the arrangements tended to ease and comfort, there was no ceremony, no regulations or managing--that is to say, once within the charmed circle, there were no hindrances to perfect enjoyment and perfect freedom within the limits of good breeding. It may be mentioned here that Lord Palmerston, considered to be something of a dandy in the second decade of the nineteenth century, was at that time one of the leading lights of Almack’s, and a special favourite of Lady Jersey and Lady Cowper. Bulwer, the novelist, who as a young man was a frequenter of Almack’s, wrote a poem entitled “Almack’s, a Satiric Sketch”[26] in which he pays testimony to the beauty and charm of Lady Cowper in the following lines:

“But lo! what lovely vision glides
So graceful through the charmed throng?
Oh, ne’er did Daughter of the tides
The yielding waters float along
With shape as light and form as fair
As those which spell the gazer there.

Enchanting C*w**r, while I muse
On thee--my soul forgets awhile
Its blighted thoughts and darken’d hues,
And softens satire to a smile.”

Both at Panshanger, the Cowper country seat, and in London, Lady Cowper gathered round her a varied and interesting coterie; among her guests were the Princess Lieven, the Duchesse de Dino, Talleyrand, Pozzo, Alvanley, Luttrell, Lord and Lady Holland, Panizzi, and Lord Palmerston, who from 1809 to 1828 was Secretary-at-War, but without a seat in the Cabinet. It was not until 1830 that he became Foreign Secretary and a Cabinet Minister. Lady Cowper was, in fact, his Egeria. He was attracted by her grace and charm, her intelligence and quick perception. The letters he wrote to her at this time were chiefly on political matters, and it is known how he relied and acted on her judgment. Her brother, Lord Melbourne, whose career she followed with the deepest interest,--indeed he had few political thoughts apart from her,--had an equally high estimate of her discernment and sagacity, and he too asked and acted on her counsel. Thus she was, from the first, intimately acquainted with politics and affairs.

She bore Lord Cowper three children--one son and two daughters. The eldest daughter, Emily,--both the girls were beautiful, but especially the younger, Frances,--married, 9th June 1830, Lord Ashley, eldest son of the seventh Earl of Shaftesbury. All the men, we learn, were in love with Lady Emily, and it took her some time to make up her mind to accept Lord Ashley, who was handsome and attractive. Lady Cowper liked him immensely, indeed she declared in joke that she was more in love with him than her daughter was, and the girl’s indecision caused her mother much perturbation of soul. “I shall really break my heart,” she said, “if she decides against him.” One of Lady Emily Cowper’s accomplishments as a girl seems to have been recitation, and Princess Lieven complained how, when on a visit to Panshanger in 1828, one evening Emily was shouting “Bethgelert” three rooms off,--the Princess was playing whist,--and that as she had already had to hear “cette terrible Chanson,” containing thirteen stanzas, twice, she had no wish to hear it again.

Naturally, Lady Cowper had many admirers, among whom, however, Lord Palmerston held the chief place, and it was inevitable that a certain amount of gossip should get about. One day a curious incident caused Lady Cowper to overhear a conversation about herself. She had, because the house was full, turned her dressing-room into a bedroom for Rogers. Luttrell, another guest, came in to talk to Rogers, and neither realising who was in the next room, began to discuss Lady Cowper and her “beaux.” Rogers’s voice was too weak for her to hear what he said, but she heard distinctly Luttrell’s replies, two of which were: “Oh, come, come, women will have their beaux.” “Well, I really don’t know, but I have loved her from a child.” It is a warning to guests not to discuss their hostess when on a visit to her, even in the privacy of their bedchambers.

Lord Cowper died on 27th June 1837.

No one was greatly surprised when Lady Cowper’s engagement to Lord Palmerston was announced. Her children disliked the idea of the marriage, but were ultimately reconciled to it, and became devoted to their stepfather. The wedding took place on 16th December 1839.

It was only now that Lady Palmerston fully entered into her own, as it were, and became a real force in public and political life. True, she was fifty-two years of age, but she had in marvellous fashion preserved her beauty and even her youth. Indeed, old age itself when it came scarcely impaired her qualities of mind and heart or her beauty. Moore records meeting her in June 1839, at a large party, in the sentence, “Lady Cowper looking as young and handsome as _any_ daughter,” and Lady Lyttelton, who met her at Windsor in October 1840, mentions that Lady Palmerston was “in beauty and in great agreeableness and grace.” That kind of testimony meets us in all the letters and memoirs of the time. Everybody found her handsome and intelligent and interesting, and to many men she was associated with their first _beaux jours_ and early tickets for Almack’s. Her beauty and charm appear in all her portraits, from the delightful picture of her as a girl by Lawrence to photographs taken of her as an old woman.

She had fair hair and bright blue eyes, with a clear pink-and-white complexion. Her expression showed her good-nature and kindliness of temper. Lady Palmerston had no idea of making herself of importance. She was deeply and sincerely in love with her husband--to the end of his life she began her letters to him, “My dearest love,” and thought it a terrible thing to be separated from him even for a few days--and it was his career alone that filled her mind. It and it only was the fixed purpose of her life. She spent herself in helping him, in furthering his interests and upholding his political views and acts. She employed her wit and charm and good taste to justify all he did, and sometimes to soften the bitterness his acts provoked. She conciliated those whom it was well for him to have on his side, and sought where possible to render opposition less hostile. Lord Palmerston took his bride to Carlton Terrace, and in March 1840 he writes: “We have been giving some dinner and evening parties which have had a very good political effect, have helped the party, and have pleased many individuals belonging to it.”

Disraeli, in his striking fashion, has described the difference between society in Lady Palmerston’s day and in the last decade of the nineteenth century:

“The great world then, compared with the huge society of the present period, was limited in its proportions, and composed of elements more refined though far less various. It consisted mainly of the great landed aristocracy, who had quite absorbed the nabobs of India, and had nearly appropriated the huge West Indian fortunes. Occasionally an eminent banker or merchant invested a large portion of his accumulations in land, and in the purchase of parliamentary influence, and was in time duly admitted into the sanctuary. But those vast and successful invasions of society by new classes which have since occurred, though impending, had not yet commenced. The manufacturers, the railway kings, the colossal contractors, the discoverers of nuggets, had not yet found their place in society and the senate. There were then, perhaps, more great houses open than at the present day,[27] but there were very few little ones.

“The season then was brilliant and sustained, but it was not flurried. People did not go to various parties on the same night. They remained where they were assembled, and, not being in a hurry, were more agreeable than they are at the present day. Conversation was more cultivated; manners, though unconstrained, were more stately; and the world, being limited, knew itself much better.”

Lady Palmerston’s salon became the headquarters of the Liberal party and the best barometer as to affairs. She took care, however, that, while her gatherings retained their exclusiveness, they should not be limited to politicians of her husband’s party. Distinguished foreigners, the whole of the diplomatic circle, a sprinkling of men of letters, were to be seen at her Saturday evening receptions as well as at Broadlands, Lord Palmerston’s country seat. Lady Palmerston’s drawing-rooms were neutral ground where men and women of all shades of opinion met in friendly intercourse. It was this neutrality that foreigners found so remarkable. A French diplomatist once said to Disraeli at Lady Palmerston’s reception, “What a wonderful system of society you have in England! I have not been on speaking terms with Lord Palmerston for three weeks, and yet here I am; but you see I am paying a visit to Lady Palmerston.”

She knew all the State secrets, and often acted as her husband’s private secretary, copying the private letters with her own hand. The work was enormous, but she never flinched from it. Such was her discretion that there was no fear of revelations, though she would sometimes quarrel with the ambassadors or their wives. On one occasion[28] Persigny, the French ambassador, had to apologise to her. She talked quite freely about affairs, and wrote of them to her friends, but always with great astuteness. Thus she would reveal just enough in order to draw her interlocutor on, knowing full well how and in what direction the information she gave would work. Many discussions took place in her drawing-rooms that influenced European affairs. Her tact and intuition were infallible, and Lord Palmerston always paid attention to her suggestions.

She had, moreover, keen insight into character. People soon came to know her influence with her husband, and when they wanted anything of him, tried to accomplish it through her. She said impatiently in 1846 that they had nothing to give, but were tormented with applications. Yet she was sometimes instrumental in obtaining posts for those who sought them. It did happen now and again that her outspoken comments on current affairs gave annoyance. In 1860, when the Paper Duties Bill was under discussion, she was present in the gallery during the debate, and openly expressed her wishes that it might be rejected by a large majority. Her language so shocked some of the Whigs that the Duke of Bedford was asked to remonstrate with her on the way she talked. But there was method in her madness, for when her husband thought as she did, and was debarred from speaking openly, she voiced his opinions as her own, and so gained a hearing for them. It will be remembered that the rejection of the Bill by the House of Lords caused a collision with the Commons, and Palmerston had, as his biographer puts it, to vindicate “the rights of the Commons while sparing the susceptibilities of the Lords.” The duties were repealed in 1861.

In 1841 Lady Palmerston’s daughter, Lady Frances Cowper, who was a great beauty, and had been one of the train-bearers at Queen Victoria’s coronation, became engaged to Lord Jocelyn, eldest son of the Earl of Roden, a clever handsome young man of twenty-eight and a great traveller. He had been in love with her for three years. He sent his proposal from Calcutta, but could not wait for the reply, as he had to start at once for Chusan. He did not return until a year and a half later, and reached Liverpool without knowing whether he might not find her married to some one else. But his fair lady had loyally waited. Lord Jocelyn’s father was a great Tory, but Lady Palmerston did not allow herself to be disturbed by what she called a trifle, since she put her daughter’s happiness first, and declared that “love and politics do not go together.” The marriage took place on 25th April, and the same year Lady Jocelyn was appointed extra Lady of the Bedchamber to Queen Victoria. It meant, of course, that the bride and bridegroom would be much separated, but the Queen promised that the waiting should be as much as possible in London.

Lady Jocelyn was early left a widow. When, in 1854, her husband’s militia regiment was quartered at the Tower there was an outbreak of cholera. Finding him unwell one morning, the doctor advised Jocelyn to join his wife at Kew, where they were living. In the cab he felt so much worse that he stopped it at Lady Palmerston’s house in Piccadilly. He had taken cholera, and died in the back drawing-room. Lady Jocelyn, who had by chance driven into town, found him in a dying condition.

In the autumn of 1844 Lady Palmerston made a tour in Germany with her husband, dining with the King of the Belgians at Laeken, with the King of Prussia at Berlin, and the King of Saxony at Dresden. The next year her friend Lady Holland died, leaving her £300, a portrait of Lord Melbourne by Landseer,[29] and all her fans.

A pleasing incident, which showed in what estimation Lady Palmerston was held by the party, occurred in 1850, when a hundred and twenty Liberal Members of Parliament presented her with a full-length portrait of her husband by Partridge. She was extremely proud of the compliment paid her. The painting, now at Broadlands, was hung on the staircase of their town house.

Lady Palmerston could not bear, as I have said, to be separated from her husband. In January 1851 she went to Brighton with Lady Ashley and her children, leaving him in town, and her letters to her “dearest love”--she was sixty-four and he was sixty-seven--show how not to see him even for the space of a fortnight was unthinkable. One day she wrote: “Whenever you write me word that you have opened your carpet bags I shall make a bonfire on the Steyne.” When he was away from her her letters to him are filled with adjurations to take care of himself, not to go sailing on Luggan Lake, or if he bathes, not to go out of his depth.[30]

She wrote to him nearly every day while she was at Brighton, and the following extracts from her letters are of interest:

“BRIGHTON,
_17th January 1851_.

“I got down very safely yesterday, but I never was in a more
shaky train, however. The Ashleys and I were together, and
we got down in an hour and ten minutes, but I think for the
future I shall always avoid express trains. There is something
so awful in the notion of not stopping anywhere, so that if
unfortunately there should occur anything wrong about your
carriage you would have to go on fifty miles without any help
or the least power of getting your distress known. It is like
the horror of a bad dream to imagine the possibility of such a
casualty.”

Some persons will sympathise with her feelings in an express train.

In the following letter she refers to the Bull issued by the Pope in September 1850, creating Roman Catholic Bishops in England. It roused great excitement and hostility in the country.

“_31st January 1851._

“I hope you read the _Times_ leading article yesterday on the
dangers of Popery, so very true, and all so well described. It
is _impossible_ for the well-being of any Protestant country to
allow the system which the Pope is trying to introduce here. To
have such a band of conspirators leagued together to overthrow
Protestantism in England, and leaving no means untried to
compass their ends and to work on the weak-minded by the most
unscrupulous agents.... The Pope starting a new Pope in Ireland
after all the rout made about bishops here shows that he is
not inclined to go back an inch, but rather to force on and
increase his aggressions.”

The Ecclesiastical Titles Act declaring the Papal Bull null and void was passed in July 1851. As a legislative measure it was, however, a dead letter, and was repealed in 1871.

In December 1851 Lord John Russell, the Prime Minister, required Lord Palmerston to resign his office of Foreign Secretary, on the ground that he had exceeded his authority as Secretary of State in his communications on his own authority to France with reference to the recognition of the _coup d’état_ of Louis Napoleon. Lord Palmerston had personally expressed his approval of the action to the French ambassador in London. The affair has passed into history and only concerns us here because Lady Palmerston fancied her husband was the victim of a conspiracy. She wrote angrily to this effect to Lord John, whom she had known since 1830, and who was one of her oldest friends. In his reply he told her that the tone of her letter would justify him in not answering it, but it was necessary for him to assure her that there had been no conspiracy, that he had acted alone to save others from responsibility. He further said that the loss of Lady Palmerston’s friendship added to the weight of his regret at the whole business. As a matter of fact, Lord Palmerston was soon asked to go back, and it is quite certain that it was Lady Palmerston who contrived to let it be known in the proper quarter that he was willing and anxious to do so. In 1868 Lady Palmerston asked Lord John, as Palmerston’s _oldest and best friend_--the italics are hers--to unveil the statue and window to Lord Palmerston’s memory in the town and abbey of Romsey. Lord John was only prevented from acceding to her request by the death of his brother-in-law, Lord Dunfermline. So that the difference between Lady Palmerston and Lord John was not very serious or lasting.

Lady Palmerston thought her husband always in the right, and when he resigned in 1853 because he did not consider the Government’s policy towards Russia sufficiently decided, she wrote to Charles Greville to explain his reasons. Greville called on her, and found her in high good humour, and pleased at the testimonies of approbation her husband had received. But she was again careful to make it known in the right quarters that he had acted hastily and was ready to return, and thus it was in great measure due to her that the difficulty was adjusted. She had written to Monckton Milnes on 2nd December 1853: “Nobody looks very comfortable here; the Turkish question worries a great many, and Reform others, and I believe both might have been avoided.” She used to say that every event in which her husband was concerned left him standing higher than he did before. She was immensely proud of him, liked him to be first, was provoked at Gladstone’s enormous success in 1853, and always hated the idea of her husband being out of office. Therefore, notwithstanding the far harder work entailed both on himself and on herself, she was greatly elated when he became Prime Minister for the first time in 1855. Yet later on she confessed, “I would rather that my husband was only Foreign Minister or Home Secretary, for since he became Prime Minister I see nothing of him. He never comes to bed till four or five o’clock.” Except on Saturdays and Sundays, he hardly ever dined with her. He had his dinner at three p.m., went down to the House at four, and except some tea had nothing till he came home, seldom before one a.m.