The life of Henry John Temple, Viscount Palmerston (1784–1865), covers so great a space of time elapsed and embraces so many high activities that few are the careers in English political history comparable to it. If one instinctively refers to the case of Mr. Gladstone, the nearest nineteenth century parallel, it is chiefly to observe the partly antithetical relation of the men: the one, a commoner always, the other, aristocrat by birth; each, in his time, Premier; and each preserving undimmed, past the great age of eighty years, distinguished powers of body and mind.

Lord Palmerston sprung from the Irish Temples, an ancient and honorable family. The whirligig of time has surely brought in no quainter changes than that the Temple of the Don Pacifico debate, the utterer of England’s downright word, the first Jingo of his period, should have descended, by near consanguinity, from the graceful, ineffectual Sir William Temple of Swift,—and, alas, of Bentley,—the gentleman who retired from the rude shock of politics to his Shene gardens, and who, instead of directing the troublous destinies of the state, penned models of prose style on gout and other gentlemanly things. And yet from the outset Lord Palmerston was destined to play a positive part in his world: as a man and a publicist he had few qualities that were not aggressive. A table condensed from the life by Bulwer gives in the most succinct form a view of how continuously he was in the thick of affairs.—

As a boy, he is described as being notable for vivacity and energy; and, although undoubtedly hastened by family and connections, his early entry into public life was due in some measure to his own talents. Thus, before he was twenty-four, he had twice stood unsuccessfully for member for the University of Cambridge. His first election to Parliament came in June, 1807, from Newton, Isle of Wight. A few months later, Palmerston made his maiden speech, in favor of the expedition against Copenhagen, having previously, by family interest, been appointed a Junior Lord of the Admiralty. The speech attracted immediate attention; and the public was not surprised when, in 1809, the young man of twenty-five was offered so great a post as the Chancellorship of the Exchequer. There were doubtless few rising men who would have had a similar self-control; but Lord Palmerston modestly and wisely declined the sudden elevation, and, instead, elected to be Secretary at War, a kind of bursar to the army, in which comparatively obscure position he passed nearly twenty years. His next advancement—to the Secretaryship for Foreign Affairs—marks his entrance into his real element. From now on the years were those of preparation; little by little he built himself toward the Premiership. From 1830, then, until his occupancy of the highest office an English subject may hold, Palmerston was almost constantly in office, constantly, too, a figure to be reckoned with. At last, in 1855, as a crown to his ripe years and manifold experience, came the Premiership, which was to occupy the last decade of his life. Until very near the end, he may be said to have upheld firmly the high responsibilities of the office. Hardly suspected to be seriously ill by the public, he died October 18, 1865, within two days of his eighty-first year, of gout, the statesman’s disease.

The career of Lord Palmerston is typically an English and an aristocratic one. Nothing could be farther removed from the democratic ideal of the “self-made man.” Palmerston, so to speak, was born into success; and he was able to retain and to extend his birthright. In democracies like the United States, and in constitutional monarchies like England, it is not always that the man showered with fortune’s gifts makes public life at once his amusement and his profession. In the former state, such an one is the least likely of persons to raise an influential voice in Congress; in the latter, the man often drifts into the channels of sport or society. That the higher path has been essayed by so many well-born Englishmen is more than creditable: this fact lies close at the foundations of the British Empire.

We have said that through all the ramifications of the higher English life and politics Lord Palmerston was ever a pervasive figure. He could remember games of chess he had played, as a young man, with the unfortunate Queen Caroline: the year Byron published his first poems was the year of his entrance to Parliament; and he died as the American Confederacy flickered out in ashes. Through all these years, as a statesman he had preserved much the same character. Foreign Affairs were his chief interest: his conception of their administration practically never swerved from the theory of a militant, unsleeping England—an England at times, perhaps, apt to be blustering and overbearing, but an England frankly devoted to its higher self-interests and to what, from an English point of view, was indubitably the good of the world. His position toward home affairs is hard to describe. So far as he was identified with local divisions he was a Conservative with a strong tinge of Liberal doctrine. Abroad, the tinge of Liberalism and the sympathies with Continental rebellions against absolute monarchy due to it, caused Palmerston to be regarded as almost a revolutionary. In truth, so far as England was concerned, he was profoundly in love with the status quo: the uprisings abroad, he considered, were only the restless gropings of the peoples towards a realization of the English system of government. In hardly any sense was his policy constructive. As Mr. McCarthy remarks, in his brilliant estimate, great national crises he was at no time—perhaps happily—called on to meet. It was ever his way to follow, not direct the great impulses of public opinion that swept through Parliament. The same authority neatly sums him up in saying, “His policy was necessarily shifting, uncertain, and inconsistent; for he moulded it always on the supposed interests of England as they showed themselves to his eyes at the time.” In a word, he was an astute server of the hour; and the hour requited him with more than the usual success. Such a person is obviously not nicely scrupulous in matters of the haute-politique. The qualities of indomitable self-confidence, lightning decision, and immediate execution which he carried to the Foreign Office were the direct cause of the one inglorious episode of his life. To state it colloquially, Palmerston was inclined as Foreign Secretary to run the external relations of England on his own hook. His impatience would not allow him to hold despatches, in all cases, for the Queen’s approval; and he soon fell under her grave displeasure. The formally polite warnings of the Court were not heeded by the eager Secretary. Just at the moment of the Don Pacifico triumph, Lord Palmerston was dismissed from office by royal request. He bore the slight bravely. In England such a man could not be kept down; but the incident is rare in the modern history of Court and Cabinet.

Except in the show speech of the Don Pacifico debate, Palmerston was rarely eloquent. He was humorous, flippant, almost slangy in phrase; and his favorite style was one of banter. Personally, his manner was distinguished by no particular stateliness of bearing—he seems to have been generally liked.

Mr. McCarthy hesitates to call him a great man. But it is likely that he will be remembered as one richly endowed by circumstance who was equal to his fate.