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 was easily upset by hot rooms, late hours, and bad air.  These circumstances, combined with his love of domestic life and his fondness for the country, led him to spend every evening that he could spare in his seclusion at Pembroke Lodge, and consequently cut him off, very much to his political disadvantage, from constant and intimate associations with official colleagues and parliamentary supporters.

There were other characteristics which enhanced this unfortunate impression of aloofness.  His voice had what used to be described in satirical writings of the first half of the century as “an aristocratic drawl,” and his pronunciation was archaic.  Like other high-bred people of his time, he talked of “cowcumbers” and “laylocks,” called a woman an “’ooman,” and was “much obleeged” where a degenerate age is content to be obliged.  The frigidity of his address and the seeming stiffness of his manner, due really to an innate and incurable shyness, produced even among people who ought to have known him well a totally erroneous notion of his character and temperament.  To Bulwer Lytton he seemed—­

  “How formed to lead, if not to proud to please! 
  His fame would fire you, but his manners freeze. 
  Like or dislike, he does not care a jot;
  He wants your vote, but your affections not;
  Vet human hearts need sun as well as oats—­
  So cold a climate plays the deuce with votes.”