The other day at Windsor, when Clarendon was sitting talking with Melbourne, the latter in his lounging way, as if thinking aloud, said, ‘In all my experience, I never remember such a state of things as the present; I never remember, in the course of my political life, anything at all like it; it can’t last—it’s impossible this Government can go on; Palmerston in communication with the Tories—Palmerston and Ashley—’ and then he stopped. Clarendon said, ‘What! you think Palmerston and the Tories will come together?’ To which Melbourne nodded assent. ‘And which,’ Clarendon persevered, ‘will come to the other: will Palmerston go to Ashley, or will Ashley come to Palmerston?’ To which Melbourne chuckled and grunted, laughed and rubbed his hands, and only said, ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ These are the sentiments of the Prime Minister about his own Government—a strange state of things: while Palmerston is in confidential communication with the Tories, or some of them, for the purpose of obtaining their support to his policy, half of his own colleagues, though committed, being adverse to it, and regarded by him as his worst adversaries. He and John Russell, the two Secretaries of State—the latter leader of the House of Commons—pass some days together in the house of the former, without exchanging one word upon the subject of foreign policy, and Lord John is reduced to the necessity of gathering in conversation from Neumann and Esterhazy what Palmerston’s views and opinions are. These two diplomats expressed the greatest indignation at Ponsonby’s proceedings, and Palmerston himself has renewed to Bourqueney the assurances of his resolution to adhere to the engagements he had already made to France with regard to Egypt. Melbourne, however, acknowledged that he was entirely in the dark as to Palmerston’s real views and opinions, as he believed was every one of his colleagues. He has no intimacy, no interchange of thought and complete openness with anybody, and all they know is (and that only as soon as he thinks fit to impart it) his notions with regard to each particular question as its exigencies become pressing. His position, however, is now a very remarkable one. Belonging to a Government almost every member of which dislikes or distrusts him, he has acquired, by recent events, a great reputation, and is looked upon generally as a bold, able, and successful statesman. In the event of a dislocation of parties, he is free to adopt any course, and to join with any party.[2] Almost all the domestic questions which have hitherto excited interest have been settled, compromised, or thrown aside, and a sudden interest has been awakened, and attention generally drawn to our foreign policy and international relations. All that has recently occurred—our treaties and our warlike operations—are not looked upon as the work of the Government, but as that of Palmerston alone—Palmerston, in some degree, as contradistinguished from the Government. All this confers upon him a vast importance, and enables him, neither unreasonably nor improbably, to aspire to head and direct any Government that may hereafter be formed by a dissolution and fresh combination of parties.
[2] [I believe at this time, Lord Palmerston, irritated by the opposition and distrust of his own colleagues, and encouraged by the applause of the Tories, who were delighted at the rupture of the alliance with France, and eager to bully that country, did contemplate a junction with the Tory party. But to this there was an insurmountable obstacle, the deep distrust and dislike of Sir Robert Peel, who thought Palmerston a dangerous and mischievous Foreign Minister, and the hostility of Lord Aberdeen. In fact, when these statesmen came into office a few months later, they applied themselves mainly to obliterate the traces of Palmerston’s quarrels. Nothing would have induced Sir Robert Peel to take Palmerston into his Cabinet. It was otherwise, some years later, when Lord Stanley had succeeded to the leadership of the Conservative Party, and at that time the negotiations between him and Lord Palmerston were renewed, though without any result.—H.R.]
January 13th, 1841
THE DUCHESS OF CANNIZZARO. Notwithstanding the comparative tranquillity which now prevails in France, the madness of that people having taken another turn, and venting itself upon a reckless expenditure, and the extravagant project of fortifying Paris, Guizot is evidently aware of, and alarmed at, certain intrigues now at work, for the purpose of his ejection. Of these Molé is the object or the agent, or both. Guizot sent over the other day to Reeve a paper, cleverly done, in which Molé’s position was discussed, and the morality as well as possibility of his coming into office with the aid of a coalition.
The other day died the Duchess of Cannizzaro, a woman of rather amusing notoriety, whom the world laughed with and laughed at, while she was alive, and will regret a little because she contributed in some degree to their entertainment. She was a Miss Johnstone, and got from her brother a large fortune; she was very short and fat, with rather a handsome face, totally uneducated, but full of humour, vivacity, and natural drollery, at the same time passionate and capricious. Her all-absorbing interest and taste was music, to which all her faculties and time were devoted. She was eternally surrounded with musical artists, was their great patroness, and at her house the world was regaled with the best music that art could supply. Soon after her brother’s death, she married the Count St. Antonio (who was afterwards made Duke of Cannizzaro), a good-looking, intelligent, but penniless Sicilian of high birth, who was pretty successful in all ways in society here. He became disgusted with her, however, and went off to Italy, on a separate allowance which she made him. After a few years he returned to England, and they lived together again; he not only became more disgusted than before, but he had in the meantime formed a liaison at Milan with a very distinguished woman there, once a magnificent beauty, but now as old and as large as his own wife, and to her he was very anxious to return. This was Madame Visconti (mother of the notorious Princess Belgioso), who, though no longer young, had fine remains of good looks, and was eminently pleasing and attractive. Accordingly, St. Antonio took occasion to elope (by himself) from some party of pleasure at which he was present with his spouse, and when she found that he had gone off without notice or warning, she first fell into violent fits of grief, which were rather ludicrous than affecting, and then set off in pursuit of her faithless lord. She got to Dover, where the sight of the rolling billows terrified her so much, that, after three days of doubt whether she should cross the water or not, she resolved to return, and weep away her vexation in London. Not long afterwards, however, she plucked up courage, and taking advantage of a smooth sea she ventured over the Straits, and set off for Milan, if not to recover her fugitive better half, at all events to terrify her rival and disturb their joys. The advent of the Cannizzaro woman was to the Visconti like the irruption of the Huns of old. She fled to a villa near Milan, which she proceeded to garrison and fortify, but finding that the other was not provided with any implements for a siege, and did not stir from Milan, she ventured to return to the city, and for some time these ancient heroines drove about the town glaring defiance and hate at each other, which was the whole amount of the hostilities that took place between them. Finding her husband was irrecoverable, she at length got tired of the hopeless pursuit, and resolved to return home, and console herself with her music and whatever other gratifications she could command. Not long after, she fell in love with a fiddler at a second-rate theatre in Milan, and carried him off to England, which he found, if not the most agreeable, the most profitable business he could engage in. The affair was singular and curious, as showing what society may be induced to put up with. There was not the slightest attempt to conceal this connexion; on the contrary it was most ostentatiously exhibited to the world, but the world agreed to treat it as a joke, and do nothing but laugh at it. The only difference ‘the Duchesse’ ever found was, that her Sunday parties were less well attended; but this was because the world (which often grows religious, but never grows moral) had begun to take it into its head that MACAULAY’S CONVERSATION. it would keep holy the Sabbath night. The worst part of the story was, that this profligate blackguard bullied and plundered her without mercy or shame, and she had managed very nearly to ruin herself before her death. What she had left, she bequeathed to her husband, notwithstanding his infidelities and his absence.
January 21st, 1841
I dined with Lady Holland yesterday. Everything there is exactly the same as it used to be, excepting only the person of Lord Holland, who seems to be pretty well forgotten.[3] The same talk went merrily round, the laugh rang loudly and frequently, and, but for the black and the mob-cap of the lady, one might have fancied he had never lived or had died half a century ago. Such are, however, affections and friendships, and such is the world. Macaulay dined there, and I never was more struck than upon this occasion by the inexhaustible variety and extent of his information. He is not so agreeable as such powers and resources ought to make any man, because the vessel out of which it is all poured forth is so ungraceful and uncouth; his voice unmusical and monotonous, his face not merely inexpressive but positively heavy and dull, no fire in his eye, no intelligence playing round his mouth, nothing which bespeaks the genius and learning stored within and which burst out with such extraordinary force. It is impossible to mention any book in any language with which he is not familiar; to touch upon any subject, whether relating to persons or things, on which he does not know everything that is to be known. And if he could tread less heavily on the ground, if he could touch the subjects he handles with a lighter hand, if he knew when to stop as well as he knows what to say, his talk would be as attractive as it is wonderful. What Henry Taylor said of him is epigrammatic and true, ‘that his memory has swamped his mind;’ and though I do not think, as some people say, that his own opinions are completely suppressed by the load of his learning so that you know nothing of his mind, it appears to me true that there is less of originality in him, less exhibition of his own character, than there probably would be if he was less abundantly stored with the riches of the minds of others. We had yesterday a party well composed for talk, for there were listeners of intelligence and a good specimen of the sort of society of this house—Macaulay, Melbourne, Morpeth, Duncannon, Baron Rolfe, Allen and Lady Holland, and John Russell came in the evening. I wish that a shorthand writer could have been there to take down all the conversation, or that I could have carried it away in my head; because it was curious in itself, and curiously illustrative of the characters of the performers. Before dinner some mention was made of the portraits of the Speakers in the Speaker’s House, and I asked how far they went back. Macaulay said he was not sure, but certainly as far as Sir Thomas More. ‘Sir Thomas More,’ said Lady Holland, ‘I did not know he had been Speaker.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ said Macaulay, ‘don’t you remember when Cardinal Wolsey came down to the House of Commons and More was in the chair?’ and then he told the whole of that well-known transaction, and all More had said. At dinner, amongst a variety of persons and subjects, principally ecclesiastical, which were discussed—for Melbourne loves all sorts of theological talk—we got upon India and Indian men of eminence, proceeding from Gleig’s ‘Life of Warren Hastings,’ which Macaulay said was the worst book that ever was written; and then the name of Sir Thomas Munro came uppermost. Lady Holland did not know why Sir Thomas Munro was so distinguished; when Macaulay explained all that he had ever said, done, written, or thought, and vindicated his claim to the title of a great man, till Lady Holland got bored with Sir Thomas, told Macaulay she had had enough of him, and would have no more. This would have dashed and silenced an ordinary talker, but to Macaulay it was no more than replacing a book on its shelf, and he was as ready as ever to open on any other topic. It would be impossible to follow and describe the various mazes of conversation, all of which he threaded with an ease that was always astonishing and instructive, and generally interesting and amusing. When we went upstairs we got upon MACAULAY’S MEMORY. the Fathers of the Church. Allen asked Macaulay if he had read much of the Fathers. He said, not a great deal. He had read Chrysostom when he was in India; that is, he had turned over the leaves and for a few months had read him for two or three hours every morning before breakfast; and he had read some of Athanasius. ‘I remember a sermon,’ he said, ‘of Chrysostom’s in praise of the Bishop of Antioch;’ and then he proceeded to give us the substance of this sermon till Lady Holland got tired of the Fathers, again put her extinguisher on Chrysostom as she had done on Munro, and with a sort of derision, and as if to have the pleasure of puzzling Macaulay, she turned to him and said, ‘Pray, Macaulay, what was the origin of a doll? when were dolls first mentioned in history?’ Macaulay was, however, just as much up to the dolls as he was to the Fathers, and instantly replied that the Roman children had their dolls, which they offered up to Venus when they grew older; and quoted Persius for
‘Veneri donatæ a virgine puppæ,’
and I have not the least doubt, if he had been allowed to proceed, he would have told us who was the Chenevix of ancient Rome, and the name of the first baby that ever handled a doll.
[3] [He had been dead three months.]