Lord Chatham, His Early Life and Connections

by Earl of Archibald Philip Primrose Rosebery

One word more of fascinating conjecture. Would he have been a great popular orator at mass meetings and the like? We cannot imagine Pitt a platform speaker, yet we can scarcely imagine a better. His graceful appearance, his terrible eye, the winning and majestic modulations of his voice, his spontaneity, his magnetic power, his wealth of ridicule, his poignant personalities, his dramatic force, his variety and unexpectedness constituted the most formidable equipment for platform oratory ever possessed by mortal man. And yet we cannot regret that he never was tried.

Pitt's life marks itself out with singular distinctness into definite periods. From 1708 to 1734 is the period of obscure youth, on which this volume should throw some light. From 1734 to 1745 is the period of reckless and irresponsible opposition, when he is trying the temper of his weapons. From 1745 to 1754 he remains in the shadow of subordinate office. From 1754 to 1756, though still partly in office, he emerges as an independent figure of extraordinary and irresistible force. From 1756 to 1761 is the period of power, four years of which are unrivalled in the annals of Great Britain. From 1761 to 1770 is the period of detachment, or attempted detachment, from party. It includes some tenure of office, much obscurity and illness, some actual insanity. And from 1770 till his death in 1778 he appears sometimes to be attempting to make his peace with the party system, having found it impracticable to stand alone; sometimes he seems to be retiring once more into his cell.

Few careers can be marked out so clearly; few have such a glamour. But the glamour and the glory are yet to come; they lie beyond this book. Already indeed there are confidence and hope, confidence in his vigour, his honesty, and his uprightness; but this is due rather to others than to himself. Every one else has failed, this may be the man of destiny.

And yet up to this time the career of Pitt has been, eloquence apart, not unlike that of other ambitious and not very scrupulous politicians. He begins by attacking Sir Robert Walpole. Why? He has no particular objection to Sir Robert Walpole; in after years he acknowledges that he was a great statesman. It was partly a freak of youth. Who is the biggest man to attack, the man by combating whom one can acquire the most honour and reputation? Obviously Walpole. So tilt at him. He is asked to an important house; for the first time he finds himself in the great world. He is caressed, perhaps flattered; for he has a school renown, and is a lad to be secured. He is with his Eton friends, and they think all the world of Cobham, his wisdom, his courage, his magnificence; they all in a measure depend on him. Thus he is allured into the charmed circle, and they form much the same group as that which was in our own days called the Fourth Party.

So they enter the House of Commons in high spirits, and lay about them with reckless intrepidity. Pitt is soon marked out for martyrdom by the Minister. But in a short time he is conspicuous for other reasons. He towers from the waist above his comrades as a bitter, incisive speaker. Walpole begins to take notes of his speeches; he is the coming man, and is at once secured for the faction of the Prince of Wales. Then Walpole falls. There is a great crash, and the spectators expect to see the world in ruins. But when the dust has cleared away it is seen that things are much as they were; Wilmington, scarcely visible, in Walpole's seat; Newcastle rooted in his own; Walpole, with Pulteney his protagonist, seated smug and dumb among the distant peers. There is no room for Pitt among our governors; the only new figure that strikes one is Carteret, he is evidently the moving spirit of the piece. As the prominent Minister, and as an object of hatred to Cobham, he is obviously the man for Pitt now to attack, and he trounces Carteret as recklessly as he had Walpole; only Walpole was able to reply, and Carteret cannot; for he sits where Walpole sits. Carteret, again, he mainly attacks for his eminence. He calls Carteret execrable now, but, when the battle is over, takes pride in declaring that to his patronage, to his friendship, to his instruction 'I owe whatever I am.' Still, the business of party must be done, and so Carteret must be assailed. Then Carteret disappears, and Pitt is without a target. But the young man has to realise that in his reckless onslaughts he has incidentally but mortally wounded the honour of the King. Walpole and Carteret are off the scene; and the stage is now occupied, so far as he is concerned, by a monarch who is an incarnate veto as regards him, and who can never forgive him. This produces a new situation. Pitt is as strenuous to be pardoned as he was to offend; he is all milk and honey in public, but apprises the Pelhams, who are now in sole possession of the administration, that he is not disposed to be long-suffering, and that the ordinary rewards of political warfare are overdue. They are fully alive to the situation, and attempt to mollify the Sovereign. But their labour is in vain, and so, with more subtlety than patriotism, they produce a ministerial crisis when civil war is alive in the island. The King has to yield, and, in angry submission, receive Pitt. The new placeman, having achieved office, subsides into a long silence. Pelham dies at last, and the great inheritance has to be divided. Pitt is ill and absent; his rival is at once preferred (though alienated); while Pelham's brother attempts to guide, with the help of the Master of the Great Wardrobe, what Pelham could not control. The result is easily foreseen. The rivals unite to tear the Master limb from limb, and one of them has to be bought off. That one is not Pitt. And now something, pique or patriotism or marriage, one cannot analyse it now, perhaps he could not have analysed it himself, lifts him into new splendours of eloquence. His rival seems cowed by the harness without the confidence of office. Pitt stands alone, no one dare face him. Meanwhile he receives new authority from disaster. In every region where Britain is interested calamity follows calamity. The country is roused to a passion of wrath and vengeance. It demands victims. Byng in prison remains an open wound to remind the nation of its miscarriages. They are resolved to shoot him, at any rate; they would not be unwilling to hang others whom they hold responsible for his miscarriage, who are perhaps corrupt, and who are certainly incapable and untoward Ministers; failing that, they will at least get rid of them. They look round and see no one but Pitt. He has been persecuted, he has been ignored by these Ministers, and yet his eloquence, commanding in itself, has the true note of energy and patriotism. He shall be tried; and they call for him with as much energy as the French once called for Necker, but with a truer instinct.

Strangely enough, there is so far little vigour in Pitt except in his speeches. Half his life is spent in prostration and seclusion, under the martyrdom of gout. As we have seen, on the very brink of his Ministry, he assured Fox that his health would not allow him to hold office. And, indeed, in the whole life of this singular man there is nothing more remarkable than this, that in the glimpses we obtain of himself, apart from great speeches and the result of victorious policy, we almost always find him prostrate with illness. It is generally the gout or its allies which disable him; but later it is disorder akin to if not identical with insanity. Not unnaturally, even among those less prone by profession to suspicion than the expert politician, his ill-health is often supposed to be an assumption or a screen. But in this calmer generation we can see that it was not, that the man never enjoyed health, as it is ordinarily understood, for a moment. He was always distempered, irritable, or hysterical, when not in pain. His public life was scarcely more than the intervals between fits of gout or nervous collapse. We are reminded of the sufferings of his son, as he approached the end of a long ministerial career, struggling against constant sickness and a wrecked constitution, when we contemplate the lifelong contest between the elder Pitt and hereditary disease.

Heredity counts for much, for more than we reckon in these matters. We breed horses and cattle with careful study on that principle; the prize bull and the Derby winner are the result. With mankind we heed it little or not at all. With Pitt it was everything or almost everything. From his ancestors, most probably the Governor, who, we infer, was a free liver in a tropical climate, he derived the curse of gout. From the same progenitor he inherited a nervous, violent temperament, and some taint of madness. All this told partly for him, partly against him. The gout drove him to study and reflection, but it constantly disabled him. His temperament roused him to great heights of energy and passion both in eloquence and politics, but it also alienated his fellow-men, and made him sometimes eccentric, and sometimes turbulent. We cannot in such a matter hold the balance. What is genius? None can tell. But may it not be the result in character of the conflict of violent strains of heredity, which clash like flint and steel, and produce the divine spark?

This takes us beyond our limits, more especially those of time; for within those limits the genius of Pitt has only been displayed in the barren gift of eloquence. But when we consider his disabilities of heredity and of accident we deem him already heroic. Everything has been against him. He has contended against poverty and disease and contempt. He has been wounded in the house of his family. He has been constantly betrayed. He has had to suffer for long years in silence. He is forty-eight when he at last attains anything like power. From this point of view his career is pathetic. It seems such a waste of time and opportunity. But through these long impatient years he was being trained, hardened, one may almost say, baked in the furnace. In silence and bitterness the force was being accumulated that was to electrify the Empire.

Still the dazzling result must not blind us to the facts as they stand at the moment when we are surveying and taking leave of them. Much in a man's life obviously depends on life: much too depends on death. 'Felix opportunitate mortis' is a pregnant saying. How many village Hampdens, how many Miltons have passed away, inglorious because mute, and mute from premature death. Had Cæsar or Marlborough died before middle age their military reputation would have been slender indeed. For how many men, on the other hand, has death come too late. What would have been the place in history of Napoleon III., had Orsini been a successful assassin? What that of Tiberius, had he died at sixty? The authors who have survived themselves are as the sands of the sea; indeed the exceptions are those who have not. The politicians in the same case are less conspicuous, for they crumble into the House of Lords. Historians and rhetoricians have vied with each other in setting forth the glories of Pitt's supreme years. What we have to consider is his position in 1756, when we part from him in professed ignorance of what is to come. How would Pitt appear to us had he died when he was still forty-seven? He was forty-eight the day before Devonshire, in his name, assumed the government. That is a respectable age. The younger Pitt never reached it, though he had been Prime Minister for near a score of years. Napoleon closed his career at forty-six. It is needless to detail examples. But at forty-seven the elder Pitt could only claim that he had been Paymaster of the Forces, and had cowed but not persuaded the House of Commons by his oratory. He had, too, the faith of the people, unearned except by vague echoes of purity and eloquence. Otherwise his career had been much like other careers, denouncing, or coquetting and even pressing for office, equable in expectation, and vindictive if refused. Pride was his besetting sin; yet he had stooped, to conquer.

All seems to depend on this point, so difficult to decide: was there patriotism in all this alloy? Was the anxiety for office the mere craving of the politician for reward, or was it the real consciousness of capacity, purity, and inspiration? It may well in earlier days have been the more vulgar ambition, vulgar but not reprehensible; for office is the legitimate end and object of the public man; and Pitt had earned it a hundred times over by ordinary standards, while compelled to stand aside and see his inferiors promoted. But at the period which we have reached we think the nobler sentiment is unmistakable. He will not hold out a finger, he spurns all assistance, he builds without any foundation but himself. Had he wished only for the snug and secure possession of office he would have welcomed the co-operation of Newcastle and Fox, invaluable allies in their different ways. But at this time he will have none of them, he dreams of a government which free from taint or suspicion shall appeal for the confidence of the country on the highest and purest grounds.