There was much more difficulty about the Duke of Richmond. He had entirely broken with the late Ministers, and attached himself to the Duke of Cumberland. The arrangement, however, had been made without any suitable provision for his Grace. At last he was offered the place of Cofferer. He said modestly that he knew he had not the same pretensions to the first posts as the other young noblemen of his own rank, since he had not suffered like them, had not engaged with them in opposition, and consequently had not the same merit with the party. He owned, however, that he wished for an active place in business. I persuaded him not to accept Cofferer, and assured him I would not rest till I saw him placed in a situation suitable to his rank and talents. I kept my word; and as the Duke of Cumberland had dropped a hint of making Lord Hertford Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and of sending the Duke Ambassador to Paris, I pursued that idea, though the Duke wished rather to be employed at home; till, on Lord Hertford’s nomination to Ireland, I pushed Mr. Conway so warmly that he obtained the embassy for the Duke of Richmond. Mr. Conway had had more difficulty in succeeding for Lord Hertford, whose conduct, in not taking part with his brother and his wife’s nephew, the Duke of Grafton, had given universal disgust to the party. Richmond was indeed the only steady acquisition the Ministers made. Yet the intemperance of the disgraced Cabal threw another important convert into their hands. Grenville told Lord Granby that the new Ministers had wished to turn out his father, the Duke of Rutland, in order to save the Duke of Marlborough. Lord Granby was advised to ask the King if this was true. The King denied it; and in that conversation made such impression on that light man, that, with the addition of the first vacant regiment for his uncle, Lord Robert Manners, Lord Granby was entirely gained over from his late allies. This blow was sensibly felt by Grenville, who was not endowed with the spirit of patience. His behaviour on his fall was abject and full of lamentation; and, as disgraced Ministers are seldom pitied, so the occasion generally calls forth even those spots that flattery had concealed from the prying eyes of opposition. The vaunted economy of this Minister had not been restrained to the public service. It now came out that he had obtained the reversion of one of the lighthouses[174] for himself under another name; and that, having bestowed an inferior office in the Treasury on his cook, he had bid the man expect no wages for five years. Lord Halifax had been guilty of worse corruption: he and his mistress had sold every employment in his gift.
But if the integrity of the new Ministers shone by the comparison with their predecessors, in want of prudence they seemed to have taken the example of those very predecessors for the rule of their own conduct. Nothing could induce them to take the smallest step that might secure favour in the closet, by even civility to the Favourite. Perhaps the disguise used by the King deceived them into an idea of that attention not being necessary. He told them early that he understood their bargain, and that Lord Bute should not meddle; and that if Elliot and Oswald would not work (support them by speaking in Parliament) he gave them power to turn out both. The conduct of the Ministers, as individuals, was honourable—but in not restoring Mackenzie, unjust both to the King and the sufferer, and too great a sacrifice to popularity. I pressed the restitution of Mackenzie to Mr. Conway, and urged that, as public men and friends to their country, it behoved them to bend a little in order to secure their power in exclusion to men of worse designs. But to talk to Conway against public opinion was preaching to the winds. Even Lord Northumberland, from his relation to the Favourite, was neglected in the new system, though he had been deprived of the government of Ireland by the late Cabal on the same foundation.
The Princess of Wales was the first offended on finding she could promise herself as little influence over the new Ministers as of late she had experienced from the last. A conversation was much talked of, in which it was said warm words were overheard between her and her son, who was distinctly heard (according to the report) to tell her, that he had ventured his crown to obey her. The disgusts of Lord Bute’s friends, and of the late Ministers, whose rupture had its origin in the animosities between the Princess and the Duchess of Bedford, gave occasion to an excellent bon mot of George Selwyn, who said of the two factions, that, like thieves going to execution, they laid their ruin to lewd women.
Notwithstanding their sacrifices to popularity, and with self-created omens that promised them little stability, the first public notice taken of the new Ministers gave them no reason to think that there was a general approbation of their advancement. In the Address of the City of London on the birth of a Prince, the King was told that when his measures should be established, that great body would be ready to support them. The Ex-ministers took this as a compliment to themselves; but it more probably had reference to Mr. Pitt, the idol of the citizens.
Abroad the change was no sooner known, than Prince Ferdinand wrote to Mr. Conway to propose coming over with the Hereditary Prince, or afterwards, and begged Mr. Conway to tell him in confidence whether the King would like it. The King said he should like it much, but that Prince Ferdinand had better wait till his nephew was gone back again to Germany, because the latter, having married a Princess of England, must be distinguished by ceremonial. Whoever remembered how little distinction had been paid to the Prince, even on his marriage, could not believe this to be the true reason of the King’s waiving the visit. It was more natural to think his Majesty was not eager to be witness of Prince Ferdinand’s popularity, when his own was at so low an ebb; nor could he wish that his new Ministers should enjoy the triumph and advantages of a visit that seemed paid to them rather than to himself. Whatever hindered it, Prince Ferdinand never came. The Prince and Princess of Brunswick did arrive by particular invitation. Some thought Lord Bute hoped to engage Mr. Pitt by the intervention of the Hereditary Prince; but the court paid of late, both by the Prince and his wife, to the Princess Dowager, had entirely won her affections, and removed her antipathy to the House of Brunswick.
CHAPTER X.
Walpole’s Separation from his Party.—His Character of Mr. Conway.—Commencement of the Troubles with North America.—Death of the Duke of Cumberland.—His Character.—Negotiations with the Courts of Versailles and Madrid respecting the Fortifications at Dunkirk and the Ransom of the Manillas.
The dissolution of our Opposition now afforded me that opportunity of retreating from those who had composed it, for which I had so eagerly longed; nor was I dilatory in executing my resolution. Many new reasons concurred to make me adhere to the plan I had formed. It was against my opinion that my friends had accepted the Administration; and though I would not peremptorily advise Mr. Conway to decline taking part, when he told me he thought himself obliged in honour to obey the King’s and Duke’s commands, still I saw so much weakness both in the leaders and the numbers, that I entertained no hopes of the permanence of their power. Chiefs who could not conduct a party with sense, seemed little qualified to govern a nation. I had given notice, that if ever they attained power, I would have nothing farther to do with them. They had attained it now, but with so little prospect of maintaining their ground, that nothing was so probable as their being soon driven to opposition again. In that I was determined to engage with them no more. If I quitted them triumphant, they would have no right to call on me should they again be defeated by their own want of skill. I had fully satisfied my honour and my engagements, and had anybody cause to complain, it was myself—but I chose to part with them on good terms; nor would I, when I was really hurt, condescend to utter a reproach. This topic truth demands that I should explain. I had entered into opposition on the view of the violent measures, and still more violent designs of the Court. Personal dislike to the Bedford faction had inflamed my natural warmth, and the oppression exercised on Mr. Conway had fixed in me an unalterable desire of overturning that Administration. Not the smallest view of self-interest had entered into my imagination. On the contrary I risked an easy ample fortune with which I was thoroughly contented. When I found unjust power exerted to wrong me, I am not ashamed to say I flattered myself that, if ever our party was successful, I should obtain to have the payments of my place settled on some foundation that should not expose me to the caprice or wanton tyranny of every succeeding Minister; for court I was resolved to make to none, whether friend or foe,—a haughtiness I maintained throughout my life, never once condescending to go to the levee of any first Minister. My wish of making this independence perfectly easy I had hinted to Mr. Conway during our opposition. He received it with silence. It was not in my nature to repeat such a hint. As disinterestedness was my ruling passion, I did hope that on the change some considerable employment would be offered to me, which my vanity would have been gratified in refusing. It was mortifying enough to me, when Mr. Conway (for I have said that during the last negotiation I was confined in bed with the gout) reported to me the proposed arrangement of places, to find that my name had not been so much as mentioned. That I would take no place was well known,—I had frequently declared it. From the Duke of Cumberland, to whom I had never paid court; from the Duke of Newcastle, whom I had constantly ridiculed; from Lord Rockingham and the Cavendishes, whom I had treated with a very moderate share of regard; I had no reason to expect much attention: and though some notice is due to all men who are respected in a party, they were excusable in proposing nothing for me, when they found nothing demanded for me by my own intimate friend and near relation. He must be supposed to know my mind best: if he was silent, what called on them to be more solicitous for my interest? But what could excuse this neglect in Mr. Conway? For him I had sacrificed everything; for him I had been injured, oppressed, calumniated. The foundation of his own fortune, and almost every step of his fortune, he owed solely to me. How thoroughly soever he knew my sentiments, was a compliment at least not due to me. Whatever was due to me, much or little, he totally forgot it; and so far from once endeavouring to secure my independence, in his whole life after he never once mentioned it. I had too much spirit to remind him of it, though he has since frequently vaunted to me his own independence. Such failure of friendship, or to call it by its truer name, such insensibility, could not but shock a heart at once so tender and so proud as mine. His ensuing conduct completely opened my eyes. When I saw him eager and anxious to exalt his brother Hertford to the Vice-royalty of Ireland, and his brother-in-law Lorn to a regiment; and when he omitted no occasion of serving them and the Duke of Argyle[175] and Lord Frederick Campbell—all four, men who had abandoned him to persecution without a pang, I saw clearly into his nature. He thought it noble, he thought it would be fame, to pardon the neglect he had met with; and that the world would applaud his generous return of their ungenerous and interested behaviour. No glory would have accrued from his serving me, as it would have been natural and no more than was expected. His heart was so cold that it wanted all the beams of popular applause to kindle it into action. I had command enough of myself not to drop a word of reproach on a friendship so frozen; but, without murmur, and with my wonted cheerfulness, as soon as my strength was tolerably recruited, I declared my intention of making a visit to Lord Hertford, at Paris, before he quitted his embassy. I acted with the same unconcern to the whole party, for I would neither suffer them nor my enemies to know that I had any cause to be dissatisfied with Mr. Conway. When I scorned to open myself, even to him, it was not likely I should be more communicative to others. As disgust with my friends did not, as most commonly happens, reconcile me to my enemies, I foresaw that I might still have occasion to make use of my power with Mr. Conway to the annoyance of the latter; for though Mr. Conway had none of the warmth of friendship, yet he had more confidence in me, and knew he might have, than in any man living; and, notwithstanding the indifference I have described, he frequently trusted me afterwards with secrets that he reserved from his wife and his brother.
He no sooner discovered that my intention was to remain in France much longer than he expected, than he broke out into complaints, entreaties, and reproaches: and, as if he had satisfied all the duties of friendship, and I had violated them, he tried with angry words to divert me from my purpose; urged the occasion he should have for my advice, and called my retreat desertion of my friends. Satisfied with making him feel the want of me, and now hardened against the calls of friendship, I treated the matter lightly, civilly, and desultorily. I reminded him of the declaration I had often made of quitting the party as soon as they should be successful, which he could not deny; and, with a little mixture of conscious scorn, I said I knew the obligations the party had had to me; I knew none I had to them. Vexed, and his pride hurt, he employed Lady Ailesbury to tell me in his presence that he looked upon my behaviour as deserting him; and himself dropped many peevish accents. Fixed in the plan I had laid down to myself, nothing could provoke me to be serious; I carried off all with good humour; and, above owing to a retort of reproaches what I ought to have owed to his sentiments, I parted with him with such inflexible, and consequently mysterious, cheerfulness, that he knew not what interpretation to put on my behaviour—if he did guess, he was more blameable than I suspected. His insensibility had made me insensible; his ingratitude would have given me stronger sensations. But it is justice to him to say, that I think he was incapable of ingratitude: his soul was good, virtuous, sincere; but his temper was chill, his mind absent; and he was so accustomed to my suggesting to him whatever I thought it was right for him to do, that he had no notion of my concealing a thought from him; and as I had too much delicacy to mention even my own security, I am persuaded it never came into his conception. His temper hurt me, but I forgave his virtue, of which I am confident, and know it was superior to my own. We have continued to this day on an easy and confidential footing; but conscious that I would not again devote myself for him, I have taken strict care never to give him decisive advice, when it might lead him to a precipice. Before I set out, and as a mark that I meant no breach with him, at the same time to serve another friend, and to wear an air of interest with the Administration which might disguise my dissatisfaction, I desired Mr. Conway to raise Sir Horace Mann, the resident at Florence, to the rank of envoy; which was immediately done. The Bedfords, however, knew me enough to surmise that my retreat was the effect of some dislike I had conceived to the new system; and at my return to England, near eight months afterwards, officiously threw out civilities that might draw me to their connection. I soon let them see that whatever my dislikes were, nothing had happened to soften my conduct, or change my opinion of them and their principles. Nor was it much longer before they found that I had lost neither inclination nor power to bar their return to Court by the weight I retained with Mr. Conway.