The political event that caused the greatest sensation when I was a girl was the murder of Mr. Burke and Lord Frederick Cavendish on May 6, 1882.  We were in London at the time; and the news came through on a Sunday.  Alfred Lyttelton told me that Lady Frederick Cavendish’s butler had broken it to her by rushing into the room saying: 

“They have knifed his lordship!”

The news spread from West to East and North to South; groups of people stood talking in the middle of the streets without their hats and every one felt that this terrible outrage was bound to have consequences far beyond the punishment of the criminals.

These murders in the Phoenix Park tended to confirm Gladstone in his belief that the Irish were people whom we did not understand and that they had better be encouraged to govern themselves.  He hoped to convert his colleagues to a like conviction, but Mr. Chamberlain and he disagreed.

Just as I ask myself what would have been the outcome of the Paris Conference if the British had made the League of Nations a genuine first plank in their programme instead of a last postscript, so I wonder what would have happened if Chamberlain had stuck to Gladstone at that time.  Gladstone had all the playing cards—­as President Wilson had—­and was not likely to under-declare his hand, but he was a much older man and I cannot but think that if they had remained together Chamberlain would not have been thrown into the arms of the Tories and the reversion of the Premiership must have gone to him.  It seems strange to me that the leaders of the great Conservative party have so often been hired bravos or wandering minstrels with whom it can share no common conviction.  I never cease wondering why it cannot produce a man of its own faith.  There must be something inherent in its creed that produces sterility.

When Mr. Gladstone went in for Home Rule, society was rent from top to bottom and even the most devoted friends quarrelled over it.  Our family was as much divided as any other.

One day, when Lord Spencer was staying at Glen, I was sent out of the room at dinner for saying that Gladstone had made a Balaclava blunder with his stupid Home Rule; we had all got so heated over the discussion that I was glad enough to obey my papa.  A few minutes later he came out full of penitence to see if he had hurt my feelings; he found me sitting on the billiard-table smoking one of his best cigars.  I gave him a good hug, and told him I would join him when I had finished smoking; he said he was only too glad that his cigars were appreciated and returned to the dining-room in high spirits.

Events have proved that I was quite wrong about Home Rule.  Now that we have discovered what the consequences are of withholding from Ireland the self-government which for generations she has asked for, can we doubt that Gladstone should have been vigorously backed in his attempt to still the controversy?  As it is, our follies in Ireland have cursed the political life of this country for years.  Some one has said, “L’Irlande est une maladie incurable mais jamais mortelle”; and, if she can survive the present regime, no one will doubt the truth of the saying.