Collections and Recollections | Page 5

be just, And wrought in brave
old age what youth had planned;"
Lady Louisa Tighe, who as Lady Louisa Lennox buckled the Duke of
Wellington's sword when he set out from her mother's ball at Brussels
for the field of Waterloo; and Miss Eliza Smith of Brighton, the
vivacious and evergreen daughter of Horace Smith, who wrote the
Rejected Addresses. But these admirable and accomplished ladies hate
garrulity, and the mere mention of their names is a signal to bring these
disjointed reminiscences to a close.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Lady Lyndhurst died in 1901.
[2] "Living" alas! no longer. The last survivor of these ladies died this
year, 1903.

II.
LORD RUSSELL
These chapters are founded on Links with the Past. Let me now
describe in rather fuller detail three or four remarkable people with
whom I had more than a cursory acquaintance, and who allowed me for
many years the privilege of drawing without restriction on the rich
stores of their political and social recollections.

First among these in point of date, if of nothing else, I must place John
Earl Russell, the only person I have ever known who knew Napoleon
the Great. Lord Russell--or, to give him the name by which he was
most familiar to his countrymen, Lord John Russell--was born in 1792,
and when I first knew him he was already old; but it might have been
said of him with perfect truth that
"Votiva patuit veluti descripta tabella Vita senis."
After he resigned the leadership of the Liberal party, at Christmas 1867,
Lord Russell spent the greater part of his time at Pembroke Lodge, a
house in Richmond Park which takes its name from Elizabeth Countess
of Pembroke, long remembered as the object of King George the
Third's hopeless and pathetic love. As a token of his affection the King
allowed Lady Pembroke to build herself a "lodge" in the "vast
wilderness" of Richmond Park, amid surroundings which went far to
realize Cowper's idea of a "boundless contiguity of shade."
On her death, in 1831, Pembroke Lodge was assigned by William IV.
to his son-in-law, Lord Erroll, and in 1847 it was offered by the Queen
to her Prime Minister, Lord John Russell, who then had no home
except his house in Chesham Place. It was gratefully accepted, for
indeed it had already been coveted as an ideal residence for a busy
politician who wanted fresh air, and could not safely be far from the
House of Commons. As years went on Lord John spent more and more
of his time in this delicious retreat, and in his declining years it was
practically his only home.
A quarter of a century ago it was a curious and interesting privilege for
a young man to sit in the trellised dining-room of Pembroke Lodge, or
to pace its terrace-walk looking down upon the Thames, in intimate
converse with a statesman who had enjoyed the genial society of
Charles Fox, and had been the travelling companion of Lord Holland;
had corresponded with Tom Moore, debated with Francis Jeffrey, and
dined with Dr. Parr; had visited Melrose Abbey in the company of Sir
Walter Scott, and criticized the acting of Mrs. Siddons; conversed with
Napoleon in his seclusion at Elba, and ridden with the Duke of
Wellington along the lines of Torres Vedras.

The genius of John Leech, constantly exercised on the subject for
twenty years, has made all students of Punch familiar with Lord John
Russell's outward aspect. We know from his boyish diary that on his
eleventh birthday he was "4 feet 2 inches high, and 3 stone 12 lb.
weight;" and though, as time went on, these extremely modest
dimensions were slightly exceeded, he was an unusually short man. His
massive head and broad shoulders gave him when he sate the
appearance of greater size, and when he rose to his feet the diminutive
stature caused a feeling of surprise. Sydney Smith declared that when
Lord John first contested Devonshire the burly electors were
disappointed by the exiguity of their candidate, but were satisfied when
it was explained to them that he had once been much larger, but was
worn away by the anxieties and struggles of the Reform Bill of 1832.
Never was so robust a spirit enshrined in so fragile a form. He inherited
the miserable legacy of congenital weakness. Even in those untender
days he was considered too delicate to remain at a Public School. It was
thought impossible for him to live through his first session of
Parliament. When he was fighting the Reform Bill through the House
of Commons he had to be fed with arrowroot by a benevolent lady who
was moved to compassion by his pitiful appearance. For years
afterwards he was liable to fainting-fits, had a wretched digestion, and