11 May: Boreham on William Pitt

A Maker of History
The student who is tired of trifles and who wishes as a tonic to spend a while among big men and big things, should take down a biography of Lord Chatham, the anniversary of whose death we mark today. The study will prepare his mind for the approach of Empire Day. Mr. Frederic Harrison maintained that Chatham shares with Edward the first, William the Conqueror and Oliver Cromwell well, the honour of being one of the four who, above all others made our Empire great. It is not easy to recapture in the 20th century, the awe with which the personality of William Pitt as he then was, was regarded by his contemporaries.

"If," says Thackeray, "if you and I had been alive in the days of George the Second and had strolled some afternoon down Milsom St.—hush! We should have removed our hats as an awful long, lean, gaunt, figure, swathed in flannels, passed in its sedan chair, and a livid face looked out from the window. That face is instantly recognised by its enormous Roman nose, its terrible frown, and by the great fierce eyes that stare at us from under a bushy powdered-wig. With bated breath we reverently exclaim, 'There he is! There is the Great Commoner! There is Mr. Pitt!'" English history can present nothing quite as imposing as this strange and silent figure.

Pitt believed in keeping himself to himself. Familiarity, he held, breeds contempt. He enveloped himself in an atmosphere of inscrutable mystery. Remote, statuesque, and overwhelming, he studiously avoided the attentions of the multitude, and kept even his closest friends at arm's length. He convinced himself that in order to exercise real authority, a statesman must be stern, unbending, holding himself majestically aloof from the ordinary rabble. As a consequence, he was by everybody feared and by everybody respected. He had implicit and unwavering confidence in his own judgement. Knowing his own mind, he spoke his own thoughts and imposed his will on men, who, though extremely able and immensely popular, were slightly less sure of themselves. On more than one occasion, when the King refused to extend the royal sanction to some measure on which his powerful minister had determined, Pitt simply returned the unendorsed document to the palace for His Majesty's signature. At least once he sent the parchment back a third time, and the King, recognising the futility of obduracy, submissively signed it!

Iron Grip That Has Never Been Relaxed
Not altogether by fear, however, did Pitt rule England. No man, however clever, can browbeat a court, a parliament and a people for long. There must be some element behind their strength, tending to establish their supreme authority. In Pitt's case we have not far to search for that subtle quality. Pitt was obeyed so universally because he was trusted so implicitly. In an age in which political corruption abounded among all parties, and in which it was taken for granted that men held exalted positions in order that they might feather their own nests, the entire community knew that William Pitt was a model of unselfishness and the very soul of honour. His consuming passion, colouring all his private thought and all his public policy, was his genuine love of his country.

Pitt not only ruled England as no other man, before or since, has ruled it, but he created a most amazing family tradition. The hand of the Pitts was on the nation for several generations: is, indeed upon the nation still. The lustre of the father's resounding name made it comparatively easy for his brilliant son to become Prime Minister at the age of twenty-four and to inaugurate a career with a parallel in our history. In his "Prime Ministers of Britain," Bigham shows that, long after these two illustrious statesmen had passed away, the Pitt family, through its descendants and nominees, dominated the fortunes of England.

A Glorious Day Reaches A Memorable Sunset
Pitt's last hours were characteristic of him. A few days before his death the Duke of Richmond had given notice in Parliament of his intention of reviving the whole subject of Britain's attitude towards America. To the consternation of his immediate friends, Lord Chatham announced that though at the point of death he would go down to the House, and take part in the debate. He did. The assembled peers could scarcely believe their eyes when they beheld the old statesman, leaning heavily on his crutch being assisted by his son, William Pitt the Younger, to his place. He wore, as was his fashion, a rich velvet coat. His legs were swathed in bandages. His wig was so large and his face so emaciated that none of his features could be discerned except the high curve of his nose and the eyes which still blazed with their former fire.

Rising painfully in his place, his voice was at first inaudible. Members held their breath to catch the hoarse whisper of the dying man. "I am old," he managed to say, "old and infirm. I have one foot—more than one foot—in the grave. I have come from my deathbed to plead the cause of my country; never again shall I address this noble House."

He pressed his hand to his breast, fell in an apoplectic fit, was caught by the peers who sat nearest him, and was carried to return no more from the impressive scene that he had so long adorned. When, shortly after this dramatic speech, the old statesman died, all parties joined in doing honour to his illustrious memory. Surrounded by Fox and Grattan, Canning and Wilberforce, Gladstone and Beaconsfield, and by his own distinguished son, he sleeps in the Abbey in a tomb that Macaulay felt to be the most glorious and impressive of them all. And the pageant of the years has but intensified the public gratitude to one who deserves to be remembered as, par excellence, the architect of our Empire.

F W Boreham

Image: William Pitt (the older) aka Lord Chatham