way's sentiments," writes the Duke of Richmond to Lord Rockingham, "get among our friends, it will be a race among them who shall go first to Mr. Pitt."

The members of the new administration, though more than one of them were men of eminent abilities, were unfortunately united by scarcely a single tie either of political freemasonry or of personal friendship. "He [Lord Chatham] made an administration," said Burke, "so chequered and speckled

he put together a piece of joinery so crossly indented and whimsically dovetailed; a Cabinet so variously inlaid; such a piece of diversified mosaic; such a tesselated pavement without cement, here a bit of black stone and there a bit of white; patriots and courtiers; king's friends and republicans; Whigs and Tories; treacherous friends and open enemies that it was indeed a very curious show, but utterly unsafe to touch, and unsure to stand on." It had been the object of Pitt to "break all parties;" to cement a ministry composed of the ablest men of each party; to apportion to them their several parts; and to render them as much as possible mere puppets in his hands. But, illustrious as he had rendered himself in his capacity of a war minister, he had neither the tact, the temper, nor the urbanity, requisite to qualify him to succeed as a party leader in times of peace. Walpole, at the very commencement of his motley administration, foretold the inevitable result.

"From this moment," he writes to George Montague, on the 10th of July, "I date the wane of Mr. Pitt's glory. He will want the thorough-bass of drums and trumpets, and is not made for peace."

Walpole was unquestionably in the right. Lord Chatham's "drums and trumpets" were everything to him. So long as the guns of the Tower announced fresh victories, and French banners were paraded from St. James's to St. Paul's, he had been idolised by his countrymen, and his name had terrified Europe. No one, too, knew better than himself how serviceable those "drums and trumpets" had been to his reputation. When Wilkes, in his "Letter to the Duke of Grafton," sarcastically speaks of him as the first orator or rather the first comedian of the age, the trifling buffoonery is not without its point. Lord Chatham, in fact, though a great man, was also a consummate actor. True it is that, in his own domestic circle, no man could be more entirely free from all stage artifices, and from all assumption of stage grandeur. There, at least, he was all gentleness, simplicity, and good humour; clinging with fond affection to those who were near and dear to him, and having a smile ever ready for the humblest dependent who ate his bread. But, between Lord Chatham reading the Bible aloud to his children, and Lord Chatham browbeating a colleague, or overawing his under secretaries, there

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was a wide distinction. On these latter occasions it is, that we find him displaying a pomposity and a haughtiness which almost amount to vulgarity, and which seem scarcely to be compatible with true greatness. When he transacted business with his clerks, it was in all the dignity of a tye-wig and a full-dress coat, and not only were his under secretaries never invited to be seated in his presence, but, according to Doctor Johnson, even Lord Camden was kept standing by him during their interviews. Charles Fox, indeed, laughed at the latter allegation, but Burke thought that it might be true "in part." If he condescended to grant an audience to a colleague, or to any person of consequence, the prearrangement of his easy chair, of his crutches, his flannels, and his gouty legs, is said to have been regarded by him as a matter of real gravity. But it was the House of Commons which usually witnessed his most elaborate dramatic exhibitions. Whether, on certain occasions, he was likely to produce a greater effect if he addressed his audience in a court dress and in seemingly vigorous health, or if he limped into the house, supported by crutches and swathed in flannels, appear to have afforded him as much concern as if he had been a young actor preparing for his first exhibition on the stage, or a young lady arranging her toilet for her first ball. In fact, whether the great statesman received a visitor in his sick-chamber, or whether he addressed himself to the assembled

Commons of England, his manner and costume were alike contrived for the purpose of inspiring adventitious reverence and awe.

The amusement which the theatrical traits in this great man's character afforded to the wits and exquisites of the day, will be found amusingly exemplified in a portion of the following unpublished letter, which, inasmuch as it is addressed by the first letter-writer to the first wit of their time, the reader will probably gladly accept in extenso:

The Hon. Horace Walpole to George Augustus Selwyn, Esq.

"PARIS, March 7, 1766. "I laughed till I cried at your description of Mr. Pitt, hopping, crawling, and dressing; but I took care not to publish it here, where they believe he is more alert and has longer talons than the Beast of the Gevaudan.' They have not dared to send a man to our boisterous colonies, for fear he should ship to New York. The Pope dare not acknowledge the Pretender while Mr. Pitt lives. Nay, one of the accusations against poor La Chalotais is that he corresponded with Mr. Pitt, to whom,

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'An enormous wolf which had for some time ravaged the Gevaudan. It was killed in the spring of 1765 and carried to Versailles, where Walpole saw it displayed, as well as the peasant who had slain it, in the queen's antechamber, "as if it had been a public enemy."

* An able, virtuous, and honest patriot, who suffered a miserable imprisonment, and very narrowly escaped perishing on the

though no longer a minister, they conclude a conspirator would address himself. In short, they consider him, as the Chinese do the East India Company, whom they call Mr. Company. You see how true the saying is that nobody is a hero in the eyes of his own valet de chambre! In England you are all laughing at a man whose crutch keeps the rest of Europe in awe. It is now and then such a Clytus as you, that prevents a poor drunken mortal from passing for a god; for it does not signify whether they hiccup with Chian wine or vanity, nor whether they are adopted by Jupiter Ammon or Sir William Pynsent.' Their heads are equally turned, and so are those of the spectators. I hope the Godhead will not forget that his arm is to be lame, and knock your brains out with his crutch. When you make so free with our great men, I wonder you are so tender of our little ones; I mean our princes. Consider that they would be still more troublesome if they were not totally insignificant.

"I will endeavour to unkennel your Madame St. Jean, though, by what you hint, I believe the best way would be to address yourself to the lieutenant de police. I will inquire, too, for your Duc de Joyeuse en Capucin, though I never scaffold, owing to his opposition to the Jesuits and the tyranny of the Duc d'Aiguillon.

In 1765, Sir William Pynsent, a Somersetshire baronet, bequeathed his whole fortune to Mr. Pitt, though neither related to, nor personally acquainted with him.