IN February, 1855, Roebuck moved for a select committee to inquire into
the condition of the Army before Sebastopol. Lord John Russell, who was
leader of the House, treated this as a vote of censure, and resigned.
Lord Palmerston resisted Roebuck’s motion, and generously defended the
Government he was otherwise opposed to. But the motion was carried by a
majority of 157, and Lord Aberdeen was turned out of office. The Queen
sent for Lord Derby, but without Lord Palmerston he was unable to form a
Ministry. Lord John was then appealed to, with like results; and the
premiership was practically forced upon Palmerston, in spite of his
unpopularity at Court. Mr. Horsman was made Chief Secretary for Ireland;
and through Mr. Ellice I became his private secretary.
Before I went to the Irish Office I was all but a stranger to my chief.
I had met him occasionally in the tennis court; but the net was always
between us. He was a man with a great deal of manner, but with very
little of what the French call ‘conviction.’ Nothing keeps people at a
distance more effectually than simulated sincerity; Horsman was a master
of the art. I was profoundly ignorant of my duties. But though this was
a great inconvenience to me at first, it led to a friendship which I
greatly prized until its tragic end. For all information as to the
writers of letters, as to Irish Members who applied for places for
themselves, or for others, I had to consult the principal clerk. He was
himself an Irishman of great ability; and though young, was either
personally or officially acquainted, so it seemed to me, with every
Irishman in the House of Commons, or out of it. His name is too well
known—it was Thomas Bourke, afterwards Under Secretary, and one of the
victims of the Fenian assassins in the Phœnix Park. His patience and
amiability were boundless; and under his guidance I soon learnt the
tricks of my trade.
During the session we remained in London; and for some time it was of
great interest to listen to the debates. When Irish business was before
the House, I had often to be in attendance on my chief in the reporters’
gallery. Sometimes I had to wait there for an hour or two before our
questions came on, and thus had many opportunities of hearing Bright,
Gladstone, Disraeli, and all the leading speakers. After a time the
pleasure, when compulsory, began to pall; and I used to wonder what on
earth could induce the ruck to waste their time in following, sheeplike,
their bell-wethers, or waste their money in paying for that honour. When
Parliament was up we moved to Dublin. I lived with Horsman in the Chief
Secretary’s lodge. And as I had often stayed at Castle Howard before
Lord Carlisle became Viceroy, between the two lodges I saw a great deal
of pleasant society.
Amongst those who came to stay with Horsman was Sidney Herbert, then
Colonial Secretary, a man of singular nobility of nature. Another
celebrity for the day, but of a very different character, was Lord
Cardigan. He had just returned from the Crimea, and was now in command
of the forces in Ireland. This was about six months after the Balaklava
charge. Horsman asked him one evening to give a description of it, with
a plan of the battle. His Lordship did so; no words could be more suited
to the deed. If this was ‘pell-mell, havock, and confusion,’ the account
of it was proportionately confounded. The noble leader scrawled and
inked and blotted all the phases of the battle upon the same scrap of
paper, till the batteries were at the starting-point of the charge, the
Light Brigade on the far side of the guns, and all the points of the
compass, attack and defence, had changed their original places; in fact,
the gallant Earl brandished his pen as valiantly as he had his sword.
When quite bewildered, like everybody else, I ventured mildly to ask,
‘But where were you, Lord Cardigan, and where were our men when it came
to this?’
‘Where? Where? God bless my soul! How should I know where anybody
was?’ And this, no doubt, described the situation to a nicety.
My office was in the Castle, and the next room to mine was that of the
Solicitor-General Keogh, afterwards Judge. We became the greatest of
friends. It was one of Horsman’s peculiarities to do business
circuitously. He was fond of mysteries and of secrets, secrets that were
to be kept from everyone, but which were generally known to the office
messengers. When Keogh and I met in the morning he would say, with
admirable imitation of Horsman’s manner, ‘Well, it is all settled; the
Viceroy has considered the question, and has decided to act upon my
advice. Mind you don’t tell anyone—it is a profound secret,’ then,
lowering his voice and looking round the room, ‘His Excellency has
consented to score at the next cricket match between the garrison and the
Civil Service.’ If it were a constabulary appointment, or even a village
post-office, the Attorney or the Solicitor-General would be strictly
enjoined not to inform me, and I received similar injunctions respecting
them. In spite of his apparent attention to details, Mr. Horsman hunted
three days a week, and stated in the House of Commons that the office of
Chief Secretary was a farce, meaning when excluded from the Cabinet. All
I know is, that his private secretary was constantly at work an hour
before breakfast by candle-light, and never got a single day’s holiday
throughout the winter.
Horsman had hired a shooting—Balnaboth in Scotland; here, too, I had to
attend upon him in the autumn, mainly for the purpose of copying
voluminous private correspondence about a sugar estate he owned at
Singapore, then producing a large income, but the subsequent failure of
which was his ruin. One year Sir Alexander Cockburn, the Lord Chief
Justice, came to stay with him; and excellent company he was. Horsman
had sometimes rather an affected way of talking; and referring to some
piece of political news, asked Cockburn whether he had seen it in the
‘Courier.’ This he pronounced with an accent on the last syllable, like
the French ‘Courrier.’ Cockburn, with a slight twinkle in his eye,
answered in his quiet way, ‘No, I didn’t see it in the “Courrier,”
perhaps it is in the “Morning Post,”’ also giving the French
pronunciation to the latter word.
Sir Alexander told us an amusing story about Disraeli. He and Bernal
Osborne were talking together about Mrs. Disraeli, when presently
Osborne, with characteristic effrontery, exclaimed: ‘My dear Dizzy, how
could you marry such a woman?’ The answer was; ‘My dear Bernal, you
never knew what gratitude was, or you would not ask the question.’
The answer was a gracious one, and doubtless sincere. But, despite his
cynicism, no one could be more courteous or say prettier things than
Disraeli. Here is a little story that was told me at the time by my
sister-in-law, who was a woman of the bedchamber, and was present on the
occasion. When her Majesty Queen Alexandra was suffering from an
accident to her knee, and had to use crutches, Disraeli said to her: ‘I
have heard of a devil on two sticks, but never before knew an angel to
use them.’
Keogh, Bourke, and I, made several pleasant little excursions to such
places as Bray, the Seven Churches, Powerscourt, &c., and, with a chosen
car-driver, the wit and fun of the three clever Irishmen was no small
treat. The last time I saw either of my two friends was at a
dinner-party which Bourke gave at the ‘Windham.’ We were only four, to
make up a whist party; the fourth was Fred Clay, the composer. It is sad
to reflect that two of the lot came to violent ends—Keogh, the cheeriest
of men in society, by his own hands. Bourke I had often spoken to of the
danger he ran in crossing the Phœnix Park nightly on his way home, on
foot and unarmed. He laughed at me, and rather indignantly—for he was a
very vain man, though one of the most good-natured fellows in the world.
In the first place, he prided himself on his physique—he was a tall,
well-built, handsome man, and a good boxer and fencer to boot. In the
next place, he prided himself above all things on being a thorough-bred
Irishman, with a sneaking sympathy with even Fenian grievances. ‘They
all know _me_,’ he would say. ‘The rascals know I’m the best friend they
have. I’m the last man in the world they’d harm, for political reasons.
Anyway, I can take care of myself.’ And so it was he fell.
The end of Horsman’s secretaryship is soon told. A bishopric became
vacant, and almost as much intrigue was set agoing as we read of in the
wonderful story of ‘L’Anneau d’Améthyste.’ Horsman, at all times a
profuse letter-writer, wrote folios to Lord Palmerston on the subject,
each letter more exuberant, more urgent than the last. But no answer
came. Finally, the whole Irish vote, according to the Chief Secretary,
being at stake—not to mention the far more important matter of personal
and official dignity—Horsman flew off to London, boiling over with
impatience and indignation. He rushed to 10 Downing Street. His
Lordship was at the Foreign office, but was expected every minute; would
Mr. Horsman wait? Mr. Horsman was shown into his Lordship’s room. Piles
of letters, opened and unopened, were lying upon the table. The Chief
Secretary recognised his own signatures on the envelopes of a large
bundle, all amongst the ‘un’s.’ The Premier came in, an explanation
_extrêmement vive_ followed; on his return to Dublin Mr. Horsman resigned
his post, and from that moment became one of Lord Palmerston’s bitterest
opponents.