At the time Melbourne left office he was only an occasional guest at Court, but the Queen continued to correspond with him constantly, and gave him frequent proofs that her regard for him was undiminished. He took very little part in politics after 1841, and it was not long before his health began to give way. He had been so completely absorbed by the Court, that for many years he had been almost lost to society; but as soon as he was out of office, he resumed his old habits, and was continually to be found at Holland House, at Lady Palmerston's, and with a few other intimate friends. There he loved to lounge and sprawl at his ease, pouring out a rough but original stream of talk, shrewd, playful, and instructive. His distinctive qualities were strong sound sense, and an innate taste for what was great and good, either in action or sentiment. His mind kindled, his eye brightened, and his tongue grew eloquent when noble examples or sublime conceptions presented themselves before him. He would not have passed 'unmoved by any scene that was consecrated by virtue, by valour, or by wisdom.' But while he pursued truth, as a philosopher, his love of paradox made him often appear a strange mass of contradiction and inconsistency. A sensualist and a Sybarite, without much refinement or delicacy, a keen observer of the follies and vices of mankind, taking the world as he found it, and content to extract as much pleasure and diversion as he could from it, he at one time would edify and astonish his hearers with the most exalted sentiments, and at another would terrify and shock them by indications of the lowest morality and worldly feelings, and by thoughts and opinions fraught with the most cold-hearted mocking and sarcasm. His mind seems all his life long, and on almost every subject, to have been vigorous and stirring, but unsettled and unsatisfied. It certainly was so on the two great questions of religion and politics, and he had no profound convictions, no certain assurance about either. He studied divinity eagerly and constantly, and was no contemptible theologian; but he never succeeded in arriving at any fixed belief, or in anchoring himself on any system of religious faith. It was the same thing in politics. All the Liberal and Constitutional theories which he had ever entertained had been long ago more than realised, and he was filled with alarm at the prospect of their further extension. All his notions were aristocratic, and he had not a particle of sympathy for what was called progressive reform. He was a vehement supporter of the Corn Laws, abused Peel with all the rancour of a Protectionist, and died in the conviction that his measures will prove the ruin of the landed interest.
DEATH OF CHARLES BULLER.
During his administration his great object seemed to be to keep a rickety concern together, less from political ambition than from his personal feelings for the Queen. He abhorred disputes and quarrels of every description, and he was constantly temporising and patching them up when they occurred in his Cabinet (as they often did) by all sorts of expedients, seldom asserting either the dignity or the authority of his position as head of the Government. Such weak and unworthy misrule brought his Cabinet, his party, and himself into contempt, and it was unquestionably in great measure owing to his want of judgement and firmness that they became so unpopular, and at last fell with so little credit and dignity as they did in 1841. He was capricious about money, and generous and stingy by fits and starts. Easy and indolent, he suffered himself to be plundered by his servants, and took little trouble in looking after his affairs. He was fond of his family, and much beloved by them, but, both with regard to them and his friends, he was full of a jealousy and touchiness, which made him keenly alive to any appearance of indifference, and equally sensible of any attentions that were shown him. This grew into a morbid feeling after his health had given way, and tinged his latter days with melancholy, for he fancied himself neglected and uncared for. On the promotion of Lord John Russell's Government, he was mortified at not being invited to take a share in it. It was evident that he was conscious of, and bitterly felt, the decay of his own powers, and the insignificance to which he was reduced. He would, if he could, have disguised this from himself and others, but it preyed on his mind, and made him very unhappy, and often apparently morose. Sometimes his feelings would find vent in these lines from the 'Samson Agonistes,' which he would repeat with a sad memory of the past, and sense of the present:
So much I feel my general spirit droop, My hopes all flat, nature within me seems In all her functions weary of herself, My race of glory run, and race of shame, And I shall shortly be with them that rest.
Taking him altogether, he was a very remarkable man in his abilities and his acquirements, in his character and in his career, with virtues and vices, faults and merits, curiously intermingled, and producing as eccentric results as society has often beheld.
December 2nd.—The death of Charles Buller has occurred when he can be ill spared to the party of which he was rapidly becoming an important member, and to the country which he was capable of serving. He is a great social and a great public loss, more especially in days of mediocrity and barrenness like the present. He was clever, amiable, accomplished, and honest. His abilities were of a very high order, and though he loved the world and its pursuits, he had great powers of application. Few people were more agreeable and entertaining in society, and he had a very gentle and affectionate disposition. He never made, and never would have made, much progress in the profession of the law, which he originally embraced. It was evidently unsuited to his genius, his taste, and his habits, and he judged rightly in exchanging it once for all for a political career in which, had his life been spared, he would have achieved great eminence. In politics he was originally a Radical, but though the old leaven not unfrequently showed itself, it was greatly modified in his latter years; and when he manifested ultra-Liberal sympathies, it was probably more from love of paradox and controversy, than from real and sincere conviction. His political opinions, however, which for a long time seem to have been in an unsettled and transitional state, he never suppressed or compromised for any personal interest; and though he was both very ambitious and very poor, he never committed a mean or discreditable act for the sake of either favour or office. A man more honourable and independent never existed, and he would have been indebted for the political exaltation which was certainly in store for him to nothing but the force and influence of his own capacity and power. His career of usefulness was in fact only beginning. Up to a very recent period he had made no progress in public life commensurate with his ability, and especially with his parliamentary talents; but if justice was not done him, it was mainly because he did not do justice to himself. He was perhaps the most popular member of the House of Commons. By universal acknowledgement he was an admirable speaker, full of matter, lucid, never dull, and generally very amusing, so that he never rose without being sure of an attentive and favourable audience. His greatest speeches were on dry and serious subjects, such as colonisation, emigration, or records, none of which became heavy or uninteresting in his hands. He had, however, one great defect, which not only rendered him less agreeable in society than he would otherwise have been, but which had a very serious and unhappy influence on his political career. He was seduced by his keen perception of the ridiculous and an irresistible propensity to banter into an everlasting mockery of everything and everybody, which not only often became tiresome and provoking, but gave an appearance of levity to his character that largely deducted from the estimation in which he would otherwise have been held. It was impossible to be sure when he was in earnest and when he was in jest, when he really meant what he said, and when he was only jeering, gibing, and making game. It is incredible what damage this pernicious habit did him; for it created a notion that though he was very witty and entertaining, he had no settled principles and convictions, and that he 'made a mockery of life.' Of this defect (with which his friends had often reproached him) he was manifestly curing himself. He had begun to take a more sober and earnest view of the great concerns of the world, and his really excellent understanding was asserting its predominance over the wild vagaries of his wit. In thus disciplining his mind into more of practical wisdom, he was paving the way for his own success; and had he not been snatched away thus suddenly, 'while his hopes were as warm and his desires as eager as ours,' he would have become an eminent man. As it is he has left behind him a memory cherished for its delightful social qualities, and a vast credit for undeveloped powers.
PLAN FOR IRISH EMIGRATION.
Yesterday, Clarendon went to the Grange on his way to Dublin. I had a long conversation with him before he went. He told me what they are meditating for Ireland. They give up all idea of paying the priests, and laying out money for any purpose but that of emigration. For this, however, they have a great scheme connected with Canadian railways. Their purpose is to establish a vast line of railways in Canada, and to make a large emigration from Ireland for this purpose. A tax on Canadian timber, and a sum of money to be borrowed here, the interest on which Clarendon thinks he can supply (180,000l.), are to provide the necessary funds. They have satisfied themselves that this is as much as they can venture to attempt.
He informed me that Wylde (to whom the Prince is in the habit of talking very openly) told him that the Prince had been discussing with him the possibility of some change of government being rendered necessary by Lord John's health breaking down, and that they would like him (Clarendon) to succeed him, and that if such an event occurred, the Queen would certainly send for him to consult him on the subject. Clarendon desired him to take an opportunity of telling the Prince that no power on earth should induce him to accept such a post, and as it was much better the Queen should never make an overture which would not be accepted, he wished none such might ever be made to him. He then gave his reasons for considering himself disqualified. I told him they would not accept his excuses, because since his Irish administration he had acquired a reputation which rendered him in the eyes of the world fit for any post, but that I understood well why for various reasons he might wish to decline the office. He said he could not speak, and had not had parliamentary experience enough, having come too late into the House of Lords, and never having been in the House of Commons. Finally he begged me to tell anybody who suggested such a possible contingency, that no power on earth would ever induce him to take it. But I don't think he was displeased when I told him I should certainly not say that, because I did not consider it so absolutely impossible, and that events might occur, and the state of parties be such, that his acceptance of the post would become a matter of public duty on his part. The truth is, he is sincere in his disclaimer, but with an arrière pensée of ambition, which not unnaturally smiles on the idea of such a prodigious elevation.
December 9th.—I dined on Tuesday last with Milman, Guizot, Macaulay, and Hallam; Macaulay receiving felicitations with great modesty and compliments on his book,[80] of which the whole impression was sold off, and not a copy was to be got, though it had only been out three days. Macaulay and Hallam talked of a branch of our literature of which Guizot, well informed as he is, could know nothing. Macaulay's French is detestable, the most barbarous accent that ever has écorché les oreilles of a Parisian.