Books in Brief: Lord Palmerston

Lord Palmerston, by Jasper Ridley (Dutton, 689 pp., $12.50).

To really appreciate Lord Palmerston, one must first conjure up a pallid reflection of the only slightly less pallid figure of Dean Rusk and then ponder it for as long as your digestion permits. Having done so, turn to Jasper Ridley’s new study of a real statesman, and savor the contrast. Because of its size, one is tempted to call Mr. Ridley’s biography of Palmerston monumental. However, a better word might be monstrous, for, like some unfortunate giant with a glandular imbalance, it is lopsided—an exhaustive compilation of Palmerston lore, good, bad and indifferent. Yet Palmerston himself is an engaging figure—a bright aristocrat whose chauvinism was of the benign sort and whose brinkmanship was almost always judicious (“Palmerston can never resist shaking his fist in the face of anyone he is not afraid of. If they show fight he runs away,” wrote one contemporary). He was a great, if flawed, nineteenth-century statesman; he enjoyed life; he loved his country; and, all things considered, he served her fairly well. Mr. Ridley’s book makes for good wading if you are not very familiar with the period. Once you’ve gotten the hang of it, caught your breath and accustomed yourself to the cold-water style, you may even find the deep end rewarding. Whether you do or not, I promise you you’ll like the subject himself. Any man capable of annoying as mixed a bag of busybodies as Cobden, the Prince Consort, Lord Cardigan and Karl Marx can’t have been all bad.

AB

About the Author

Aram Bakshian Jr.

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Lord Palmerston, by Jasper Ridley (Dutton, 689 pp., $12.50).

To really appreciate Lord Palmerston, one must first conjure up a pallid reflection of the only slightly less pallid figure of Dean Rusk and then ponder it for as long as your digestion permits. Having done so, turn to Jasper Ridley’s new study of a real statesman, and savor the contrast. Because of its size, one is tempted to call Mr. Ridley’s biography of Palmerston monumental. However, a better word might be monstrous, for, like some unfortunate giant with a glandular imbalance, it is lopsided—an exhaustive compilation of Palmerston lore, good, bad and indifferent. Yet Palmerston himself is an engaging figure—a bright aristocrat whose chauvinism was of the benign sort and whose brinkmanship was almost always judicious (“Palmerston can never resist shaking his fist in the face of anyone he is not afraid of. If they show fight he runs away,” wrote one contemporary). He was a great, if flawed, nineteenth-century statesman; he enjoyed life; he loved his country; and, all things considered, he served her fairly well. Mr. Ridley’s book makes for good wading if you are not very familiar with the period. Once you’ve gotten the hang of it, caught your breath and accustomed yourself to the cold-water style, you may even find the deep end rewarding. Whether you do or not, I promise you you’ll like the subject himself. Any man capable of annoying as mixed a bag of busybodies as Cobden, the Prince Consort, Lord Cardigan and Karl Marx can’t have been all bad.