WILLIAM PITT
THE YOUNGER

WILLIAM HAGUE

DEDICATION

For my mother and father,

who have passed on to me

their reverence for books

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Family Tree

Map: French Satellites and French Conquests, 1792–1805

Prologue

PART ONE

1 Elder and Younger

2 Cambridge and the World

3 Ambition on Schedule

4 Brilliant Beginnings

5 Death of Two Governments

6 The Youngest Chancellor

7 Brief Exuberance

8 From Plotter to Prime Minister

9 The Struggle for Supremacy

PART TWO

10 Power and its Limits

11 Private by Nature

12 Spreading His Wings

13 Insanity and Crisis

14 Trials of Strength

15 The Cautious Crusader

16 The View from the Precipice

PART THREE

17 A Tutorial in War

18 Frustrations of Supremacy

19 Insurmountable Obstacles

20 Breaking Point

21 Caution to the Winds

22 The Dashing of Hope

23 Resignation with Hesitation

PART FOUR

24 The Limits of Magnanimity

25 The Old Addiction

26 Back, But Never the Same

27 Too Many Enemies

28 ‘How I Leave My Country’

Notes

Bibliography

Index

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Praise

Other Works

P.S. Ideas, interviews & features …

About the Author

About the Book

Read On

Copyright

About the Publisher

FAMILY TREE

MAP: FRENCH SATELLITES AND FRENCH CONQUESTS, 1792–1805

PROLOGUE

On the morning of Tuesday, 9 June 1778 huge crowds gathered in the centre of London. People came in their tens of thousands, despite the pouring rain, to line the streets and windows around the old Palace of Westminster. ‘The concourse of people assembled’, wrote one of the following morning’s newspapers, ‘was beyond belief: the windows of all the houses, and even tops of some were crowded; as were the streets, though the spectators had been not only exposed to the rain for several hours, but to stand in dirt and wet nearly to the ankles …’¹

From the entrance to Westminster Hall in New Palace Yard, through Parliament Street, Bridge Street, King Street and then the Broad Sanctuary outside the Great West Door of Westminster Abbey, they waited for hours; some noisily, regarding it as ‘a scene only of festivity’, some quietly, as they ‘indulged a patriotic sigh to the memory of their country’s protector’.²

At two o’clock in the afternoon those with a view of the North Door of Westminster Hall saw the procession emerge. First the High Constable of Westminster, then the messenger to the College of Arms in a mourning cloak, soon afterwards seventy poor men in cloaks with black staves in their hands, then a Standard, then a long line of servants. Eventually came a great banner and a coronet on a black velvet cushion and then the coffin, covered in a black velvet pall, adorned with the Arms of the deceased and borne by eight gentlemen.

The previous day an estimated hundred thousand people had filed through the black-draped Painted Chamber of the Palace to see the same coffin lying in state. For these were the remains of the Earl of Chatham, known to a previous generation before his ennoblement as ‘the Great Commoner’, and to a later generation accustomed to the fame of his son as the elder Pitt. He had ended his turbulent and unpredictable career with the most dramatic possible exit, collapsing in the House of Lords while denouncing the mismanagement of the war with America, and had died in May, a month later. He had been a dominating figure, the great political leader of his time. Whatever mixture of curiosity, gregariousness and reverence had brought vast numbers to line the route of his funeral procession, there is no doubt that every single one of them knew something of his life, achievements and opinions.

Among his contemporaries, the elder Pitt had excited every feeling from adoration to contempt. To the court of King George III, already in the nineteenth year of what would be a sixty-year reign, Chatham was impudent, unreliable and inconsistent. He had switched royal patrons in the 1740s out of opportunism, had been unable to work with the King’s favourite Minister in the 1760s, and having schemed for years to return to office and regain his power, had retreated into hypochondria and depression once he was back. In the 1770s he had opposed the war with America, giving moral support to a colony in full rebellion, and had heaped scorn on the policies and Ministers of His Majesty. To the King he had been ‘a snake in the grass’,³ and to other critics he was guilty of ‘prevarication, self-contradiction, disregard of truth, mad ambition, mean popularity, pride, and the most intemperate passion’.⁴ Few tears would be shed at Windsor, or among the supporters of the increasingly embattled administration of Lord North, that this powerfully persuasive voice was now forever silent.

Yet to many others this man who had so offended the King was the greatest figure in politics in their lifetimes, a man who had rescued an outnumbered nation from military defeat and vanquished her enemies, particularly the French, in the Seven Years’ War, the greatest war they had ever known. To them he was ‘that great and glorious Minister, who, to all succeeding ages, will be quoted as an illustrious example, how one great man, by his superior ability could raise his drooping country from the abyss of despair to the highest pinnacle of glory, and render her honoured, respected, revered, and dreaded by the whole universe’.⁵ It was Chatham alone, they said, who had given direction, and a sense of purpose, and aggression to Britain’s war effort; Chatham who produced the great ‘year of victory’ of 1759, when Horace Walpole had written ‘our bells are worn threadbare with ringing of victories’.⁶ Thus Chatham was revered as a brilliant maker of war, who had brought Canada and India under British dominion, yet he was also supported as a far-sighted man of peace by the opposition politicians, led by the great Whig magnate the Marquis of Rockingham, who now proceeded to the Abbey. For it was Chatham too who had pointed with wisdom and clarity to the folly of the war in America.

The bitter controversies of Chatham’s lifetime had led to contrasting, and to simple observers confusing, approaches to his death. As the procession wound its way to Westminster Abbey the crowds must have wondered whether or not this was really meant to be a grand state occasion. The House of Commons had voted unanimously for a public funeral, a huge monument in the Abbey and the paying off of Chatham’s substantial debts. The Corporation of London, ever devoted in its support for him, had unsuccessfully petitioned the King to permit his burial in St Paul’s. Yet the House of Lords had voted against attending the funeral as a House, and there is no doubt that ‘the greatest influence was made by the Court to prevent the members of either House attending the funeral’.⁷ As a result the funeral arrangements were a compromise, a public procession without the pomp and pageantry which only the state was able to provide. Many onlookers would be disappointed, with the Morning Post commenting: ‘The funeral procession was allowed, on all hands, to be a very pitiful pageant, considered as a national one; for instead of having a platform erected for it from Westminster Hall to the Abbey, as is usual in such cases, the attendants were obliged to wade through the mud, preceded by half a dozen scavengers with their brooms!’ ‘It is rather remarkable’, the paper went on to point out, ‘that St Martin’s bells were ringing a merry peal during the interment of the late patriotic Earl.’⁸

The London Evening Post made a similar complaint: ‘The most scandalous parsimony prevailed, and every mark of disrespect was shown to those members who did attend. Not half the quantity of cloaks, scarfs, or hatbands were provided – great complaints were made but the answer, was, “it would have been too expensive to have furnished more.” Colonel Barré justly observed, “it is not a reign to complain in”.’⁹ Chatham had evidently complained too much.

Those who thought they would see the parliamentary leaders assembled en masse found instead only about forty peers and twenty MPs among the many hundreds of people attending the ceremony. There was Rockingham, the foremost opposition politician; there Edmund Burke, his right-hand man; there General Burgoyne, the soldier turned opposition MP – but they were there ‘more to vex the King’s Ministers than to honour the memory of the Earl’.¹⁰ Only one member of the government was present, Lord Amherst, who had commanded the army under Chatham, and only one member of the Royal Family, the Duke of Gloucester, the King’s estranged younger brother. There were no Sheriffs, no Masters in Chancery in their gowns, no judges or Privy Councillors. The Lord Mayor was missing, as was the Speaker of the House of Commons, and there was not ‘a sufficient number of Baronets to walk by themselves’.¹¹

Still, the crowds had witnessed a solemn procession and a major event. Some of them might even have noticed the Chief Mourner, walking behind the coffin, the late Earl’s second son, another William Pitt. On his left was his brother-in-law, Lord Mahon, and on his right his uncle, Thomas Pitt. With his mother choosing to stay at home rather than grieve in public and his elder brother at sea on the expedition to reinforce Gibraltar, the nineteen-year-old William performed his first public duty, walking behind the coffin of the father who had doted on him. That night he wrote to his mother:

Harley Street

June 9th, 1778

My Dear Mother

I cannot let the servants return without letting you know that the sad solemnity has been celebrated so as to answer every important wish we could form on the subject. The Court did not honour us with their countenance, nor did they suffer the procession to be as magnificent as it ought; but it had notwithstanding everything essential to the great object, the attendance being most respectable, and the crowd of interested spectators immense. The Duke of Gloucester was in the Abbey. Lord Rockingham, the Duke of Northumberland, and all the minority in town were present … All our relations made their appearance … I will not tell you what I felt on this occasion, to which no words are equal; but I know that you will have a satisfaction in hearing that Lord Mahon as well as myself supported the trial perfectly well and have not at all suffered from the fatigue …

I hope the additional melancholy of the day will not have been too overcoming for you, and that I shall have the comfort of finding you pretty well tomorrow. I shall be able to give you an account of what is thought as to our going to Court.

And I am ever, my dear Mother, your most dutiful and affectionate son,

W Pitt¹²

Less than twenty-eight years would pass before William Pitt’s own body would join that of his father beneath the same dark stone slab in the North Transept of Westminster Abbey. In that time, he would equal his father’s fame and popularity while far exceeding his domination of politics and his endurance in office.

Gladstone’s chronology of Pitt’s life (1838)

PART ONE

1 Elder and Younger

‘There never was a father more partial to a son.’

WILLIAM WYNDHAM GRENVILLE¹

‘He went into the House of Commons as an heir enters his home; he breathed in it his native atmosphere, – he had, indeed, breathed no other; in the nursery, in the schoolroom, at the university, he lived in its temperature; it had been, so to speak, made over to him as a bequest by its unquestioned master. Throughout his life, from the cradle to the grave, he may be said to have known no wider existence. The objects and amusements, that other men seek in a thousand ways, were for him all concentrated there. It was his mistress, his stud, his dice box, his game-preserve; it was his ambition, his library, his creed. For it, and it alone, had the consummate Chatham trained him from his birth.’

LORD ROSEBERY²

IT WOULD SCARCELY BE POSSIBLE to imagine a more intensely political family than the one into which William Pitt was born on 28 May 1759. On his father’s side, his great-grandfather, grandfather and uncle had all been Members of Parliament. His father, twenty-five years an MP, was now the leading Minister of the land. On his mother’s side, that of the Grenville family, one uncle was in the House of Lords, and two others were in the Commons, one of them to be First Lord of the Treasury by the time the infant William was four years old. An understanding of Pitt’s extraordinary political precocity requires us to appreciate the unusual circumstances of a family so wholeheartedly committed to political life.

It was in the year of William’s birth that the career of his father, still also plain William Pitt, approached its zenith. Three years into what would later be known as the Seven Years’ War, in which Britain stood as the only substantial ally of Prussia against the combined forces of France, Austria, Russia, Saxony and Sweden, the elder Pitt had become the effective Commander-in-Chief under King George II of the British prosecution of the war. In his view the war had arisen from ‘a total subversion of the system of Europe, and more especially from the most pernicious extension of the influence of France’.³ He was not nominally the head of the government, the position of First Lord of the Treasury being held by his old rival the Duke of Newcastle, but he was the senior Minister in the House of Commons. Through his powerful oratory he dominated both Parliament and the Ministry, and was acknowledged as the effective leader of the administration. As Newcastle himself said in October of that year: ‘No one will have a majority at present against Mr. Pitt. No man will, in the present conjuncture, set his face against Mr. Pitt in the H. of Commons.’⁴

From taking office at the age of forty-eight in 1756 as Secretary of State for the Southern Department,* with a brief interruption of two months during the Cabinet crisis of 1757, Pitt had become the principal source of ministerial energy in both organising for war and in preparing a strategy for Britain to do well out of it. It was Pitt who gave detailed instructions on the raising and disposition of the troops and the navy, and Pitt who insisted on and executed the objective of destroying the empire of France. As the French envoy, François de Bussy, was to complain to the leading French Minister the Duc de Choiseul after meeting Pitt in 1761: ‘This Minister is, as you know, the idol of the people, who regard him as the sole author of their success … He is very eloquent, specious, wheedling, and with all the chicanery of an experienced lawyer. He is courageous to the point of rashness, he supports his ideas in an impassioned fashion and with an invincible determination, seeking to subjugate all the world by the tyranny of his opinions, Pitt seems to have no other ambition than to elevate Britain to the highest point of glory and to abase France to the lowest degree of humiliation …’⁵

It was in 1759 that Pitt, previously dismissed as a rather unpredictable politician with a distinctly chequered career, came to be regarded as the saviour of the nation. His insistence on fighting a European war with offensives elsewhere – in America, the Caribbean, Africa and on the oceans of the world – was crowned with success within months of the birth of his second son, William. Instead of having to face the French invasion feared throughout much of the year, Britain celebrated a stream of military successes that summer and autumn: victory at Minden in Germany in August, the storming of Quebec which shattered French rule in Canada in September, the simultaneous news of victories which reinforced British dominance of India, and then the defeat and scattering of the French fleet at Quiberon Bay in November. These events brought about a change in the public perception of the elder Pitt, analogous to the regard in which Churchill was held after 1940 compared to the controversy which previously surrounded him. From then on there was a sense of reverence, sometimes of awe, towards him, both on parliamentary occasions and among the wider public. Tall, haughty, but always eloquent, he was the great orator and war leader who had placed himself beyond party gatherings and factions to be at the service of the nation. The young William, as he became conscious of the people and events around him, would know only a world in which his father was treated as a legend.

Such renown was a far cry from the frustrated ambitions of earlier generations of Pitts. Being a younger son, the elder Pitt had enjoyed little in the way of financial inheritance, but his ancestors and relatives had been well connected and often very wealthy for the previous century and a half. Pitt’s forebears had included prominent and sometimes wealthy officials under Elizabeth I and James I, but it is Thomas Pitt of Bocconoc (1653–1726) who brings the family story to life. He was the buccaneering ‘Diamond Pitt’ who went to India and made a fortune in probably illegal competition with the East India Company, came back and purchased English property with it, including the medieval borough of Old Sarum,* and then returned to India on behalf of the Company as Governor of Madras. While there, he bought a 130-carat diamond for £25,000 which he hoped to sell to one of the European royal families for at least ten times as much. Returning to Britain during the War of the Spanish Succession (1702–1713), he discovered that European royalty was otherwise preoccupied, but eventually sold the diamond at a substantial but much smaller than expected profit to the Regent of France. With this and other earnings from his exploits in India, Thomas Pitt set about buying more estates, particularly in Cornwall. He was part of a new and often resented breed of rich men who came back from the East to buy property and parliamentary influence at home. He used his wealth to help all five of his children on their way in life, particularly the eldest son, another Thomas Pitt, who kept most of the family wealth and became Earl of Londonderry. A younger son, Robert Pitt, was put into Parliament for Old Sarum in 1705, for which he sometimes sat alongside his father. Robert Pitt was undistinguished, came close to disaster by being on the fringes of Jacobite attempts to overthrow the new Hanoverian dynasty, and died young, but not before fathering six children, the fifth of whom was William Pitt, the future Earl of Chatham. Once again the eldest son was a Thomas Pitt, who after much litigation and family dispute ended up with the lion’s share of the family wealth.

The family lived at Stratford-sub-Castle near Salisbury, but at the age of ten William was sent with his eldest brother Thomas to Eton, an experience which proved decisive in his later determination to educate all of his own children at home. He remarked much later to the Earl of Shelburne that he ‘scarce observed a boy who was not cowed for life at Eton; that a publick school might suit a boy of a turbulent forward disposition, but would not do where there was any gentleness’.⁶

It seems that Robert Pitt had intended William for the Church, but William himself had other ideas, joining the army at the lowest officer rank in the cavalry, as a Cornet of Dragoons. He never saw active service, since the long-serving Whig Minister Robert Walpole did an effective job of keeping Britain out of various international disputes at the time, but he took the opportunity to travel to the Continent on a modest version of the Grand Tour through France, Switzerland and Holland. This was the only time he left his native country; an eighteenth-century political career did not require extensive travel. Like his son, he was later to dispose of huge forces, alliances and treaties around the globe, while only once in his life leaving the shores of Britain. He was clearly determined to continue the emerging Pitt tradition of serving in Parliament, and was duly elected for the family borough of Old Sarum in the general election of 1734, but only after some acrimony when his brother Thomas suggested giving the seat to the sitting Member, with financial compensation for William instead.

Although Pitt seems to have been well disposed towards Walpole and the Whigs at the time he was elected, he soon fell in with key figures in the opposition, notably Lord Cobham, his ex-Colonel, and Prince Frederick, the Prince of Wales. The relationship between Prince Frederick and his father King George II was an early example of a noted Hanoverian tradition, being one of unmitigated hatred between monarch and heir. The Prince of Wales was truly loathed by both his father and mother. Queen Caroline once exclaimed when she saw the Prince pass her dressing-room window: ‘Look, there he goes – that wretch! that villain! – I wish the ground would open this moment and sink the monster to the lowest hole in hell!’⁷ Such loathing was exacerbated when the King’s adoption of a Hanoverian mistress became public knowledge, so helping to make the Prince the more popular member of the Royal Family. Pitt, as a young MP and army officer, became part of the Prince’s circle, with some of his early parliamentary speeches being unmistakably toadying towards the Prince. He became a regular opponent of Walpole, and was dismissed from his position in the army as a result.

A study of the rise to power of the elder Pitt over the subsequent twenty years provides four main conclusions which assist in appreciating the career of his son. First, elections in the eighteenth century were not contested by organised political parties with a programme or manifesto. Although in the mid-eighteenth century many politicians could still be roughly categorised as Whig or Tory, even this distinction was breaking down. The opposition to the long-running Whig administrations would generally include dissident Whigs as well as a rump of Tories. In any case, most Members of Parliament had no wish to pursue a political career as such and were not elected to pursue any particular policy, many seeing their duty as one of supporting the King’s chosen Ministers unless they did something manifestly outrageous. As a result, politicians did not generally win power by campaigning at a general election and winning a majority for a specific programme, and nor did voters necessarily have the composition of the government foremost in their minds – no general election in the entire eighteenth century led directly to a change of government. There were really two routes into office: one was to be an ally of the Crown, or of someone who would inherit the crown in due course; the other was to make such a nuisance of oneself in Parliament that Ministers seeking a quiet life or a broad consensus would have to include the troublemaker in the government. The elder Pitt tried the first of these approaches for about ten years and then switched to the second, although by that time King George II was most reluctant to appoint him to anything. As Pelham, the leading Minister of the mid-1740s, wrote to Stephen Fox in 1746 on Pitt’s appointment as Paymaster General: ‘It is determined, since the King will not hear of Pitt’s being Secretary att [sic] War, that he shall be Paymaster … I don’t doubt but you will be surpris’d that Mr. Pitt should be thought on for so high and lucrative an employment; but he must be had, and kept.’⁸ There was never any love lost between Pitt and the other leading politicians of the day or between him and either of the kings he served. Each time he was appointed to the government it was because his speeches were too effective or his support too great to keep him out.

Second, while the power of Parliament was still tempered by the authority and patronage of the Crown, it was the only forum in which the politicians of the time engaged with each other and staked out their positions. As a result, prowess in parliamentary debate was a most valuable political skill. The elder Pitt could never have advanced to high office without such skill since he lacked both money and the patronage of the King. The second Earl Waldegrave, chief confidant of George II, wrote in his memoirs:

Mr. Pitt has the finest genius, improved by study and all the ornamental parts of classical learning … He has a peculiar clearness and facility of expression; and has an eye as significant as his words. He is not always a fair or conclusive reasoner, but commands the passions with sovereign authority; and to inflame or captivate a popular assembly is a consummate orator.⁹

Having finally thrown in his lot with King George II in 1746 in return for a place in the government, Pitt was happy to use his oratorical skills to advance arguments sometimes the exact opposite of those he had propagated in opposition, a phenomenon well known to this day. He had made his name in opposition denouncing the payment of subsidies for Hanoverian troops even to the point of saying he would agree to be branded on the forehead as a traitor if he ever supported the idea, but once in office he swiftly switched sides on the issue with ‘unembarrassed countenance’.¹⁰

It is a tragedy for historians that parliamentary proceedings at the time of the elder Pitt were not officially recorded. Indeed, it was expressly forbidden to publish speeches delivered in Parliament, since it was thought that this would lead to popular pressure interfering with the judgements of an independent Parliament. By the time of the younger Pitt these matters were treated very differently, but this restriction illustrates the limited role of public opinion in the British constitution of the mid-eighteenth century.

Third, while his long career encompassed a fair amount of opportunism and inconsistency, the elder Pitt undoubtedly developed and held to a broad philosophy of how Britain should operate in military and foreign affairs. Although he would have called himself a Whig, the term Tory being largely pejorative and still heavily associated with suspected Jacobite sympathies, Pitt was usually distinct in his views from the great figures of the Whig aristocracy. He was, for instance, much more likely than them to quote popular support as a factor in favour of his views, something that they would have looked on as the folly of the mob. Pitt’s views could be categorised as ‘Patriot’ or in ‘the Country Interest’, emphasising the views of a nation wider than the Whig oligarchy, and sometimes they were frankly Tory, such as opposing the existence of any significant standing army. Such opinions were associated with hostility to Continental entanglements and suspicion of the power of the Crown, two opinions woven together by the fact that the King was simultaneously but separately the ruler of Hanover.* Pitt believed in a maritime approach to foreign affairs, one which he brought to devastating fruition in the Seven Years’ War and set out at its simplest in the Commons in the 1740s:

I lay it down, Sir, as a certain maxim that we should never assist our allies upon the continent with any great number of troops. If we send our troops abroad, it should be rather with a view to improve them in the art of war, than to assist our allies … The only manner, therefore, in which we ought to support her [Austria] and our other allies upon the continent is with our money and our ships. My reason for laying this down as a maxim is, not only because the sea is our natural element, but because it is dangerous to our liberties and destructive to our trade to encourage great numbers of our people to depend for their livelihood upon the profession of arms … For this reason, we ought to maintain as few regular soldiers as possible, both at home and abroad. Another argument on this subject presents itself: our troops cost more to maintain them than those of any other country. Our money, therefore, will be of most service to our allies, because it will enable them to raise and support a greater number of troops than we can supply them with for the same sum.¹¹

Throughout his career the elder Pitt emphasised the importance of overseas trade, an issue which regularly made him the darling of the City of London. To preserve and expand that trade, he believed in naval supremacy, the retention and expansion of the colonies, particularly in North America, and a firm stance against the Bourbon monarchies of France and Spain. Long after his death, elements of the same beliefs in trade and naval power would be discerned within the policies carried out by his son as Prime Minister.

Fourth, the elder Pitt cultivated a detachment from party as a healthy attribute in itself, along with a further detachment from the financial rewards and perquisites of office. Paymasters had traditionally made huge personal gains, usually by investing for their own account the balances of public money for which they were responsible, and taking a commission on foreign subsidies.* It was to the astonishment of other politicians and the delight of a wider public that on his appointment as Paymaster, Pitt lodged the balance of public money with the Bank of England and forwent his personal commission on a subsidy to Sardinia. It was as a result of such forbearance, as well as of his general political stance, that he was long regarded as different from other politicians, less corrupt and self-interested. Coupled with his apparent lack of interest in taking a title, this attribute led to him becoming known as ‘the Great Commoner’. It was also as a result of these sacrifices that his income rarely kept up with his lavish domestic expenditure. The huge debts which this produced seldom seemed to trouble him, a trait faithfully reproduced in his famous son.

The elder Pitt spent a large proportion of his life visibly ill. He suffered from a wide range of ailments, all of which were then associated with gout; he was frequently lame and also suffered from ‘gout in the bowels’ and similar disorders. For him to give a speech in the Commons with a walking stick and a large part of his body wrapped in flannels was not uncommon. He would often retreat to his bed even at times of crisis, as this anecdote from the time of the Seven Years’ War demonstrates:

Mr. Pitt’s plan, when he had the gout, was to have no fire in his room, but to load himself with bedclothes. At his house at Hayes he slept in a long room; at one end of which was his bed, and his lady’s at the other. His way was, when he thought the Duke of Newcastle had fallen into any mistake to send for him and read him a lecture. The Duke was sent for once and came when Mr. Pitt was confined to bed by the gout. There was, as usual, no fire in the room; the day was very chilly and the Duke, as usual, afraid of catching cold. The Duke first sat down on Mrs Pitt’s bed, as the warmest place; then drew up his legs into it, as he got colder. The lecture unluckily continuing a considerable time, the Duke at length fairly lodged himself under Mrs Pitt’s bed clothes. A person, from whom I had the story, suddenly going in, saw the two ministers in bed, at the two ends of the room, while Pitt’s long nose and black beard unshaved for some days, added to the grotesqueness of the scene.¹²

In 1760, the accession of George III, grandson of George II (and son of Prince Frederick, who after years of plotting for his accession with opposition figures, spoiled every calculation by dying before his father), set in motion a chain of events which led to Pitt’s departure from government. Favouring a more hardline approach to Spain than his colleagues would accept, Pitt wished to continue in office only on the basis of assured control of the government, an ambition irreconcilable with the new King’s advancement of his great favourite, the Earl of Bute.

Pitt left office at loggerheads with his colleagues but as a towering figure in public repute, which the King and Bute recognised by conferring on him and his descendants an annuity of £3,000 a year. Bute also tried to undermine Pitt’s reputation by unusually making the details of the annuity public. Pitt complained that ‘the cause and manner of my resigning’ had been ‘grossly misrepresented’. He had been ‘infamously traduced as a bargain for my forsaking the public’.¹³ As part of the same package a title was given to Pitt’s wife, who became Baroness Chatham. For the moment, Pitt himself chose to stay in his arena of greatest influence, the Commons, rather than go to the Lords. Out of office he could now bestow more attention on his devoted wife and five children, including William, now two years old.

However many wise decisions were taken by the elder Pitt in the Seven Years’ War, few compared in wisdom to his decision a few years earlier in 1754 to marry Lady Hester Grenville. Pitt was still unmarried at the age of forty-six. His most consistent and affectionate friendship had been with his sister Ann, although he reported falling in love with a French woman during his tour of the Continent. On the face of it, his decision to get married at that age, to someone he had known for years without apparently showing any previous romantic interest in her, seems sudden and strange. Pitt had one eye on posterity: it may simply be that he woke up one morning realising that if he did not find a wife and produce a family now he never would.

In any event, it was a marriage of great and enduring strength, supported by deep mutual affection. Hester proved utterly devoted to this difficult and often sick man, describing herself in early letters as ‘ever unalterably your most passionately loving wife’. She was thirty-three at the time of their marriage and herself came from a powerful political family. Her uncle was the Lord Cobham with whom Pitt had intrigued twenty years before, and her brothers were highly active in politics, including both Richard, Earl Temple and George Grenville. The two families were already related because Pitt’s elder brother Thomas had married Hester’s cousin, but much has always been made of the strikingly different characters of the Pitts and the Grenvilles. Where the Pitts were demonstrative, emotional and argumentative, the Grenvilles were cool, methodical and loyal. Pitts had a spirit of adventure, Grenvilles an inclination to caution. And where Pitts enjoyed foreign and military matters in politics, Grenvilles were more at home with finance and administration. The seemingly better-balanced personality of the younger William Pitt is often ascribed to the fortuitous combination of these contrasting traits, although one of his biographers has commented: ‘In the son – still more in the other children – was a full measure of the Grenville starchiness, which unhappily dulled the Pitt fire and brilliance.’¹⁴ Most other commentators have concluded that alongside a brilliant and impetuous father, the younger Pitt was fortunate indeed to have a mother who had resilience, a calm temperament and an unfailing sense of duty.

In 1755 the elder Pitt purchased Hayes Place in what would now be south London, near the village of Bromley. Although in time he would regard it as only a modest residence it had twenty-four bedrooms, elegant gardens and several hundred acres of pasture and woodland. In 1765, with his fame and reputation at their height, he had the immense good fortune to inherit a large estate, Burton Pynsent in Somerset, from an admirer, Sir William Pynsent, whom he seems never to have met. Excited by the prospect of living on a far grander scale than was possible at Hayes, Pitt soon fought off the descendants of the deceased who tried to dispute the will, and set about vast alterations and landscaping. This included a 140-foot-high column in memory of Pynsent, raised as a token of humble thanks. The scale of these changes, in addition to the cost of selling Hayes and then repurchasing it at a higher price (he discovered he could not do without a large residence close to London), plunged Pitt into debts which remained with him for the rest of his life. One of the many inestimable services performed by Hester was to bring more careful management to the family’s finances and to prevent further extravagances so that the debts did not become completely unsustainable.

The young William Pitt was born at Hayes in May 1759 ‘after a labour rather severe’,¹⁵ the fourth child in five years after Hester, John, and Harriot. The fifth and final child, James, was born two years later. These five children born within six years of each other made a great deal of noise: ‘The young ones are so delightfully noisy that I hardly know what I write,’¹⁶ wrote Pitt to his wife when she went to visit her own family. He seems to have taken the precaution of making alterations to the house at Hayes so that he could cut himself off, when he wished, from the sound and presence of his children.

It is clear that William soon emerged as a notably bright child and a particular favourite of both mother and father. Hester wrote within a few weeks of his birth: ‘I cannot help believing that little William is to become a personage.’¹⁷ Although there would have been many servants in the household, the children received a good deal of attention from their father after he left office in 1761. They grew up in a very comfortable home, decidedly rural in a well-ordered sort of way. The young children rode, bathed, went birdnesting and explored the countryside first around Hayes and then around Burton Pynsent. Some of these things stuck: the younger Pitt rode regularly for exercise throughout his life, and inherited from his father a love of landscape gardening for relaxation; but even in his earliest years he did not put outdoor pursuits at the top of his list. He showed early on a sharp intellect, highly advanced powers of speech and memory, and a clear interest in public affairs. All these attributes were cultivated constantly by his father.

Inevitably, there are plenty of stories in which visitors to the Pitt household claim prescience about the child’s future greatness. Lady Holland, mother of Charles James Fox, is meant to have said, ‘I have been this morning with Lady Hester Pitt, and there is little William Pitt, not eight years old and really the cleverest child I ever saw; and brought up so strictly and so proper in his behaviour, that, mark my words, that little boy will be a thorn in Charles’s side as long as he lives.’¹⁸ Other reports include the young William standing up on a mounting block and addressing the trees as if they were Members of the House of Commons. Such stories may be fanciful, but the essential point, that he was extraordinarily well versed in politics and philosophy at a remarkably early age, certainly stands up to examination. Family correspondence refers to him as ‘the Philosopher’, ‘the Young Senator’, ‘Eager Mr. William’ and ‘Impetuous William’. In 1766, when he was seven, his tutor wrote of him and his sister:

Lady Hester and Mr. Pitt still continue to surprise and astonish as much as ever; and I see no possibility of diminishing their ardour either by too much business or too much relaxation. When I am alone reading, Mr. Pitt, if it is any thing he may attend to, constantly places himself by me, where his steady attention and sage remarks are not only entertaining but useful; as they frequently throw a light upon the subject, and strongly impress it on my memory.¹⁹

The same tutor, Edward Wilson, who taught all the Pitt children at home because of their father’s unforgiving recollections of public school, marvelled on another occasion that William ‘seemed never to learn but merely to recollect’.²⁰ At the age of seven he was able to write letters in Latin to his father, and also did so in English in a rather pompous and wordy style. With his father delivering thundering orations against the Stamp Act in the Commons in early 1766, William showed an insatiable appetite for political news. ‘I expect many sage reflections from William upon the public papers,’ his father wrote to his mother, and later that year, with a peerage for the elder Pitt in prospect, William commented that he was glad he was not the eldest son, because ‘he could serve his country in the House of Commons like his Papa’.²¹

A seven-year-old with such attitudes and interests in our own times would probably find them beaten out of him at school, and indeed that could as easily have happened in the 1760s. William had the advantage of mixing almost exclusively with his own siblings, his tutor and adult family members, most of whom encouraged his political interest. The poet William Hayley reported when William was a boy of fourteen that he ‘eclipsed his brother in conversation’.²² It is hard to think that he was not sometimes an irritation to his brothers and sisters; as the historian J. Holland Rose commented, ‘the boy … narrowly escaped being a prodigy of priggishness’.²³ His narrow escape seems to have been made possible by an easygoing disposition and pleasant temperament, which made it easier for him to win friends in a small circle. He was also a rather sickly child, with frequently recurring problems in the nose and throat, and many coughs and colds. His fragility probably helped the other children to put up with his bookish ways.

Father and son showed a deep attachment to each other. ‘If I should smoke,’ the elder Pitt wrote, ‘William would instantly call for a pipe.’²⁴ He would in later years describe William as ‘the hope and comfort of my life’.²⁵ In 1772, when Hester took the three eldest children to Hayes and left William and his younger brother with their father at Burton Pynsent, the elder Pitt wrote:

My dearest life will read with joy that the boys go on well. I believe William’s sequestration, as he learnedly terms it, agrees better with his contemplative constitution than more talk and more romps. Airing, literature, the arts, tea-table, sober whist and lecturing Papa for staying out too late, together with the small amusement of devouring a joint of mutton, or so, before I can look about, make up our daily occupations.²⁶

His wife replied: ‘I do not in the least wonder that the style of William’s present life agrees with him. It is certainly not better suited to the state of his constitution, than to the fineness of his mind, which makes him enjoy with the highest pleasure what would be above the reach of any other creature of his small age.’²⁷

In 1772 William even wrote a play, performed by the Pitt children, which was wholly political in content and eerily foreshadowed the Regency crisis in which he would play the real lead role seventeen years later. It is obvious that he showed academic gifts and political interest from an exceptionally early age, encouraged and nurtured by the adults around him, and that he enjoyed a pleasant and sheltered upbringing in the midst of a loving family. In all these respects he was very fortunate, but he was not unique. There must have been something more to his formative years, even before he went to university at the age of fourteen, to equip him to carry out the functions of Prime Minister at the age of twenty-four.

There were at least three factors which, in the formation of the young William Pitt’s personality and opinions, were not only fortunate but truly unique. The first was that a father who had himself dominated the House of Commons and presided over a government took an active, usually daily, role in his education. At no other time in British history has the head of one administration acted as the tutor of another. A home education seems to have been well suited in any case to a child of William’s temperament and health, but Mr Wilson’s tuition was frequently supplemented by the ministrations of the elder Pitt. Bishop Tomline, in his surprisingly uninformative biography of the younger Pitt written shortly after his death, reports that ‘when his lordship’s health would permit, he never suffered a day to pass without giving instruction of some sort to his children; and seldom without reading a chapter of the Bible with them’.²⁸ While the elder Pitt seems to have been attentive to all his children, he particularly enjoyed passing on to William examples of eloquence from contemporary or classical writers and speakers, and asking him to study them. He taught him to speak in a clear and melodious voice by making him recite each day passages from the best English poets, particularly Shakespeare and Milton. Another biographer of the younger Pitt, Lord Stanhope, wrote the following with the advantage of his father having spoken to Pitt himself:

My father had the honour to be connected in relationship with that great man – and, as such, he had the privilege of being in the house with him sometimes for many weeks together. Presuming on that familiar intercourse, he told me, he ventured on one occasion to ask Mr. Pitt by what means – by what course of study – he had acquired that admirable readiness of speech – that aptness of finding the right word without pause or hesitation. Mr. Pitt replied that whatever readiness he might be thought to possess in that respect, he believed that he derived it very much from a practice his father – the great Lord Chatham – had recommended to him. Lord Chatham had bid him take up any book in some foreign language with which he was well acquainted, in Latin, Greek, or French, for example. Lord Chatham then enjoined him to read out of this work into English, stopping where he was not sure of the word to be used in English, until the right word came to his mind, and then proceed. Mr. Pitt states that he had assiduously followed this practice. At first he had often to stop for a while before he could recollect the proper word, but he found the difficulties gradually disappear, until what was a toil to him at first became at last an easy and familiar task.²⁹

By the time he arrived at Cambridge in 1773, William could apparently read into English six or seven pages of Thucydides, without previous study of it and with barely a mistake. He may have been educated at home but he had in effect attended a master school in the use of language and its delivery. In addition he showed a strong early aptitude for mathematics. Uninhibited by peer pressure and required from the outset to meet adult standards, he developed early on a highly unusual ability to speak clearly, structure an argument, and think on his feet.

Secondly, he must have realised at a very early age that he belonged to a father and a family who stood apart from and were treated differently to everyone else. His father had become a national institution, and was greeted when he travelled with greater reverence than anyone else outside the Royal Family. When the Pitt family set off for their summer break by the sea in Weymouth or Brighthelmstone (modern-day Brighton) or Lyme Regis, bells were rung in their honour and flowers strewn before them. Travelling to Weymouth by coach in 1766, the family heard the bells of Yeovil ringing in their honour as they passed, and a deputation of Mohican chiefs, on their way to London with a petition, were waiting there to greet them. In an age when the inheritance of names and traits counted for more than it does today, the younger Pitt always knew that he was the son of a very great man, and that everyone else knew it too.

The third unique aspect of the younger Pitt’s early life is more complex, more debatable, but no less compelling. In the years 1765 to 1768 the career of his father took a series of dramatic turns, briefly for the better and then decidedly for the worse. At this time the elder Pitt took a series of decisions, some of which would have seemed wise at the time, but many of which must have appeared almost immediately to have been risky or foolish. While a child between the ages of six and nine cannot normally be expected to appreciate the finer points of the political events of the day, it is hard to imagine that this boy, with his precocious interest in politics, did not absorb some deep and lasting lessons from what happened. His father was in this period not only his tutor but also a living daily example of the perils of politics.

Several times between 1763 and 1766 the elder Pitt was asked to return to head the King’s government and refused to do so. By 1763, the King’s mentor and friend, the Earl of Bute, had discovered he had neither the aptitude nor the appetite for day-to-day politics, and resigned. King George III thus learnt at an early stage of his reign that he had to work with at least some of the politicians already available in Parliament rather than invent new ones, and that an effective Minister whom he partly disliked could be a better bet than an ineffective one he doted on. Several years of political instability now followed. The government was at first headed by George Grenville, Hester’s brother, who after a short time the King cordially hated and wanted rid of. Next came the Marquis of Rockingham, who did not have the parliamentary support to sustain an administration. Throughout this time, the elder Pitt reverted to his earlier behaviour of being a trenchant critic of Ministers, except that he now did so from a far more commanding position, that of a former head of the government. He broke off occasionally from his rural pursuits and the education of his children to go down to the House of Commons and thunder out his denunciation of the government, first attacking the Treaty of Paris, which brought an end to the Seven Years’ War, for being too generous to the nation’s enemies, then making no fewer than fifteen speeches attacking the handling of the case of John Wilkes, and then a determined campaign to overturn George Grenville’s Stamp Act. The Stamp Act was a tax on legal documents in North America, introduced by Grenville as a means of raising revenue from the colonists, who enjoyed the protection of the British army but paid nothing towards it. It was deeply hated in America, and the elder Pitt was determined to overturn it, advocating conciliation of the colonies rather than aggravation of their discontent. Grenville having been forced from office, and the Stamp Act being overturned in early 1766, Pitt was once again acclaimed by the City and the crowds outside the Palace of Westminster. He was not in the least troubled that in pursuing this campaign he was also destroying the policies and administration of his brother-in-law.

The young William would certainly have heard of the devastating use his father had made of the power of speech on these occasions, and he is likely to have witnessed for himself his father’s repeated decisions to refuse to take office unless given cast-iron authority over the government. The King could offer the leadership of an administration, but Pitt could refuse it. On one occasion in 1765 the Duke of Cumberland arrived at Hayes with an escort of guards, a Royal Duke sent personally by the King to invite the elder Pitt to form a government. We do not know if William was watching from the windows, but we do know that his father declined the offer, since ‘nothing was conveyed that might have for object or end anything like my settling an administration upon my own plans’.³⁰ Being in office, his father knew, was not the same as being in power. Eventually, the only stumbling block to Pitt’s return was the refusal of another brother-in-law, Richard, Earl Temple, to serve with him. But later in 1766 Pitt did indeed form a government and included in it most of the people he wanted. Protracted negotiation with the King was evidently worth it, a lesson not lost on his son, who was to be offered the premiership four times before accepting it.

It was at this stage that the elder Pitt made a major mistake. On becoming the King’s First Minister he also accepted an earldom, ‘Viscount Burton Pynsent and Earl of Chatham in the County of Kent’. In all probability, he wanted to set up his family as one of the great families of the land. He already had the estate. The next step was the title, and this was the great opportunity to acquire it. He was also tired and of course frequently ill, preferring to preside over an administration from the more genteel House of Lords without the endless knockabout of the Commons. The consequences were disastrous, according to the poet Thomas Gray the ‘weakest thing ever done by so great a man’.³¹ At a stroke, the Great Commoner was no more. The man whose reputation had partly rested on being apart from the landed aristocracy had joined it, and the man highly regarded for his independence from the King had accepted the generous patronage of the Crown. It did immense damage to his support around the country, which had always been his strongest card. Worse still, in practical terms it disabled his government from the outset in the House of Commons, where his oratorical skills were no longer available. One Minister resigned rather than face the additional workload and stress that would result. Chatham compounded all this by taking the title Lord Privy Seal rather than First Lord of the Treasury, again to lighten his burden but thereby omitting to control the central function of his government. It is unlikely that these mistakes were lost on his son. There is no evidence of what he thought about them, but throughout his career he steered well clear of repeating them.

The energy of Chatham’s administration was spent within a few months, and so was his own. According to Admiral Keppel, later a celebrated naval and political figure: ‘He [Chatham] governs absolutely, never deigns even to consult any of the Ministers, is now at Bath, and all business is at a stop.’³² William watched his father retreat into illness, possibly into what would later be called manic depression. From the spring of 1767 he became an invalid, refusing to handle the business of government or to see more than a few chosen people, despite being supposed to be in charge of the country. This situation lasted for eighteen months until the King finally and reluctantly accepted that Chatham could not continue. Again there is no direct account of what young William thought of his father’s illness or what effect it had on him. We do know of the patience, loyalty and sheer endurance displayed by his mother. Coping calmly with the dire illness of the man she loved, Hester also dealt personally with the incoming correspondence from Cabinet Ministers and even the King. It would be an exaggeration to say that she was running the government, which now lost its central direction, but she was highly effective at preventing the government from running her husband. It is unlikely that the sight of his mother dealing with all the great potentates of the nation did not make some lasting impression on William. Not only could his father be the master of other politicians, but his mother proved rather effective at it as well.

William Pitt lived through all these events, with enough knowledge to make some sense of them, before he was ten years old. They do not seem to have disturbed his studious mind or happy disposition, but they would certainly have demonstrated to him that there need be no limit to his ambition.

* In the eighteenth century a British Cabinet contained two Secretaries of State (compared to fifteen today). The Secretary of State for the Southern Department dealt with matters relating to southern European countries, including France and Spain; the Secretary of State for the Northern Department dealt with northern European countries such as Russia. In 1782 this arrangement was revised into one Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs and one for Home and Colonial Affairs.

* Old Sarum, near Salisbury, was to become the most famous of all rotten boroughs when early in the nineteenth century it continued to return two Members of Parliament while ceasing to have any voters at all. In 1728 Colonel Harrison, the Pitt nominee, defeated Henry Fox in a by-election by a four to one margin, literally four votes to one.

* The Royal Family were Hanoverians by descent. In this period the King of England was also the hereditary ruler (Elector) of Hanover.

* Henry Fox, father of Charles James Fox, is thought to have made £400,000 as Paymaster, a vast sum in those days.

2 Cambridge and the World

‘He is of a tender Age, and of a health not yet firm enough to be indulged, to the full, in the strong desire he has to acquire useful knowledge. An ingenious mind and docility of temper will, I know, render him conformable to your Discipline, in all points. Too young for the irregularities of a man, I trust, he will not, on the other hand, prove troublesome by the Puerile sallies of a Boy.’

THE EARL OF CHATHAM TO JOSEPH TURNER OF PEMBROKE COLLEGE¹

‘He was always the most lively person in company, abounding in playful wit and quick repartee; but never known to excite pain, or to give just ground of offence.’

BISHOP TOMLINE²

FOR A FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD to be admitted as an undergraduate to Cambridge University was highly unusual in the eighteenth century, just as it would be today. A sample of undergraduate admissions to Pembroke Hall in the twenty years preceding Pitt’s arrival there suggests that fewer than one in five of them were even under eighteen.³ Yet Chatham and the assiduous tutor Edward Wilson had evidently decided that William could cope with a college environment in spite of his youth and continued illnesses. Since Wilson was a graduate of Pembroke Hall (later Pembroke College), Cambridge, and his brother was presently a Fellow there, it was decided that this would be the most suitable place for William to go. His name was entered into the college admissions book on 26 April 1773. Wilson was highly confident of the new student’s prospects: ‘He will go to Pembroke not a weak boy to be made a property of, but to be admir’d as a prodigy; not to hear lectures, but to spread light.’⁴

Wilson and Pitt travelled from Somerset to Cambridge together in October 1773, a journey which took them five days. When they arrived, Pitt immediately wrote an excited letter to his father:

I have the pleasure of writing to my dear father, after having breakfasted upon College rolls, and made some acquaintance with my new quarters which seem, on the short examination I have given, neat and convenient …

To make out our five days, we took the road by Binfield, and called in upon Mr. Wilson’s curate there; who soon engaged with his rector in a most vehement controversy, and supported his opinions with Ciceronian action and flaming eyes … We slept last night at Barkway, where we learnt that Pembroke was a sober, staid college, and nothing but solid study there. I find, indeed, we are to be grave in apparel, as even a silver button is not allowed to sparkle along our quadrangles, &c.; so that my hat is soon to be stripped of its glories, in exchange for a plain loop and button.⁵

The ‘neat and convenient quarters’ were a set of rooms over the Senior Parlour where Thomas Gray had lived for many years. After that they had been occupied by Wilson’s brother, who was now vacating them to travel abroad. These rooms were spacious and well inside the college, away from any noise or bustle in the road.*

Much as the fourteen-year-old was already fascinated by events around the globe, he was still living in a small world. At that time there were about fifty undergraduates at Pembroke, and a good deal fewer than a thousand in the whole university, which could be traversed on foot in less than fifteen minutes. The main subjects of study were Classical Literature, Moral Philosophy, Political Philosophy, Natural History, Medicine, Theology and Mathematics. For his first three years, Pitt played no part in the life of the university outside the Pembroke walls. He was one of eight Fellow Commoners in the college, sons of noblemen who paid higher fees and ate at the Fellows’ table rather than with others of the same age. The relationship between a tutor and a student was often far closer than is usual today, frequently with long continuity and daily tutorials in a far smaller community. Once again Pitt was to spend most of his time conversing with adults rather than with other teenagers.

Within a week of his arrival Pitt was writing to his father to report that he was already studying Quintilian and that the Master of the College, Dr Brown, had taken a special interest in him. He was conscious, as always, of being his father’s son, expressing the hope ‘that I may be, on some future day, worthy to follow, in part, the glorious example always before my eyes’.⁶ Two weeks later he had fallen ill again and his father was urging him to work less hard: ‘You have time to spare: consider there is but the Encyclopaedia; and when you have mastered all that, what will remain? You will want, like Alexander, another world to conquer.’⁷ By then, however, the damage was already done, and his illness was sufficiently serious to cause alarm in the college and among his family, with the family nurse Mrs Sparry being sent to stay with him in his rooms. He was confined there for two months and then brought home until the summer of the following year. He was preceded home by a letter from the Master: ‘notwithstanding his illness, I have myself seen, and have heard enough from his tutors, to be convinced both of his extraordinary genius and most amiable disposition … I hope he will return safe to his parents, and that we shall receive him again in a better and more confirmed state of health.’⁸

Pitt was so ill that it is said to have taken four days to transport him from Cambridge to Hayes, a journey which ought to have been possible in one day. Back in the bosom of his family, he was referred to the attentions of his father’s physician, Dr Addington, the father of Henry Addington who was to become Pitt’s friend and, in 1801, his successor as Prime Minister. It was at this point that Pitt received the famous piece of medical advice that may have influenced his social habits throughout the rest of his life and quite possibly contributed, three decades later, to his early death. Dr Addington recommended going to bed early, and ending the habit of studying classical literature into the night. He also recommended a specific diet, and regular daily exercise on horseback. His final recommendation was to drink a daily quantity of port wine, variously recollected down the generations as ‘a bottle a day’ or ‘liberal potations’, but at any rate a good deal of it. While this sounds surprising today, medical opinion of the time was that a regular infusion of alcohol could drive other less welcome toxins to disperse in the body and hopefully disappear. Pitt, methodical as ever, took all of this advice and continued to adhere to most of it throughout his life, particularly the requirement to ride and to drink port. He can be forgiven for thinking that this combination was healthy for him, since it was from this point in his adolescence that he enjoyed a substantial improvement in his health and finally shook off the debilitating complaints that had plagued him as a child.

Nevertheless, it was not until July 1774 that he returned to Cambridge, the devoted Edward Wilson still at his side. For the next two years his life fell into a pattern in which he spent the summer in Cambridge, when of course many other members of the college would be absent, and the winters with his family so that his health could be more closely attended to. In those winter months he was again under the close tutelage of his father. A letter of January 1775 from Chatham to his wife begins, ‘William and I, being deep in work for the state’, suggesting that political discussion continued apace between father and son.⁹ In his Cambridge sojourns, Pitt now became more relaxed and at ease. He took trouble to assure his father that he was no longer working at night, and gave many accounts of riding, in accordance with the doctor’s instructions, in the vicinity of Cambridge. In July 1774, on his return, he wrote, ‘I have this morning, for the first time, mounted my horse, and was accompanied by Mr. Wilson, on his beautiful carthorse,’ and ‘Nutmeg performs admirably. Even the solid shoulders of Peacock are not without admirers; and they have jogged Mr. Wilson into tolerable health and spirits; though at first the salutary exercise had an effect that, for some time, prevented his pursuing it. The rides in the neighbourhood afford nothing striking, but, at the same time are not unpleasing, when one is a little used to a flat open country.’¹⁰ By the end of August, the now much healthier fifteen-year-old seemed fully content and settled in. He wrote to his father, ‘Mr. Turner, with whom I read the first part of the time I have been here, is now absent, and Mr. Pretyman supplies his place. During the interval of a day or two before the arrival of the latter, the Master read with me some part of Cicero De Senectute; of which he is a great admirer. He is in every respect as obliging as possible. Altogether, by the help of riding, reading, the newspapers, &c. time is past away very agreeably.’¹¹

The arrival of Dr George Pretyman as Pitt’s tutor presaged a lifelong friendship of deep mutual loyalty. Pretyman was the junior Fellow at Pembroke and he became Pitt’s principal tutor and mentor. With him, Pitt continued the practice of contemporaneous translation of classical texts which he had started with his father. Pretyman (later known as Tomline after an inheritance) was only eight years older than Pitt himself, and it is clear they spent a great deal of time together. As we shall see, he went on to be an unofficial aide to Pitt in his early years as Prime Minister, always remained a close friend and adviser, and was with him when he died in 1806. Pitt would reward him in 1787 by making him Bishop of Lincoln, and was only thwarted by the determination of George III from making him Archbishop of Canterbury in 1805.

Pretyman’s Life of Pitt has been excoriated for being of little literary or political merit and for tragically failing to give any private insights into Pitt’s character, with which he must have been extremely familiar. But it is possible to glean from the book a little of what Pitt’s life was like between the ages of fifteen and seventeen. ‘While Mr. Pitt was under-graduate, he never omitted attending chapel morning and evening, or dining in the public hall, except when prevented by indisposition. Nor did he pass a single evening out of the college walls. Indeed, most of his time was spent with me.’¹² In the course of several years ‘I never knew him spend an idle day; nor did he ever fail to attend me at the appointed hour.’¹³ As Pitt’s tutor, Pretyman was enormously impressed by the talents of his pupil who, having exhausted all the principal Greek and Latin texts, requested that they study the little-known rhapsody of Lycophron. This he read ‘with an ease at first sight, which, if I had not witnessed it, I should have thought beyond the compass of human intellect’.¹⁴

Pretyman taught Pitt alternate sessions of Classics and Mathematics. The eager pupil excelled in both fields, and continued to give particular attention to speaking styles. ‘When alone, he dwelt for hours upon striking passages of an orator or historian, in noticing their turn of expression, in marking their manner of arranging a narrative … A few pages sometimes occupied a whole morning … He was also in the habit of copying any eloquent sentence, or any beautiful or forcible expression, which occurred in his reading.’¹⁵ The focus of Pitt’s learning was therefore narrow, but always practical and invariably intense. He showed very little interest in contemporary literature, European languages (although he developed a working knowledge of French) or the wave of French philosophical writing pouring forth at the time. There is no evidence that he spent a single day reflecting on theology, despite the fact that a very large proportion of his fellow students would have been preparing for a career in the Church, a path to which his close friend and tutor was also inclined. His intellectual diversions from Classics and Mathematics extended at a later stage to attending lectures in Civil Law, with the Bar in his mind as a stopgap or supplement to politics. He always had a thirst for information about public affairs in the wider world. Even in 1773, before his arrival in Cambridge, we find him writing to a Mr Johnson, ‘Can you tell whether Governor Hutchinson’s speech to the General assembly at Boston together with their answer and his reply again have been yet published together? If they have will you send them down.’¹⁶

Pitt had a very clear sense of what facts he wanted to know and which subjects he wanted to study, and was happy to leave aside fields of theoretical discussion which preoccupied many of his contemporaries. It is impossible to escape the very simple conclusion that throughout his teens he was consciously preparing for a career at the forefront of politics, and, certain of what was required from the close observation of his father, directed his studies to that end.

It may be thought from all of this that Pitt must have been dry and dull from a social point of view, but all who knew him are adamant that this was not the case. It was at this stage, at the age of seventeen in 1776, that his daily life began to broaden out and for the first time he developed his own circle of friends. He took his Master of Arts degree without an examination, as he was entitled to do as the son of a nobleman. He had intended to sit the examinations for a Bachelor of Arts degree but was prevented by his failure to attend for sufficient terms to qualify. This did not mean, however, that he would now leave Cambridge. He had at last been able to find friends approximating to his own age, and was freer to go about to other colleges and, increasingly, on short trips to London. Possibly conscious of how little he had experienced the life of the university in his first three years, and still being too young to do anything else, he decided to stay in residence at Pembroke for the time being, albeit moving rooms in 1777 when the previous occupant of his original set returned.

He was not slow in making friends, and now laid the foundations of many lifelong relationships. His close friends included Edward Eliot, who later became his brother-in-law, lived with him in Downing Street and was a member of the Board of the Treasury; Lord Westmorland, later Lord Lieutenant of Ireland and Lord Privy Seal; William Meeke, later Clerk of the Parliament in Dublin and an MP; Lord Granby, later Duke of Rutland, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland in Pitt’s first administration, and instrumental in getting him into Parliament; J.C. Villiers, later a member of the Board of Trade; Henry Bankes, later a supportive MP for many years; John Pratt, later Lord Camden and a member of Pitt’s governments; and Lord Euston, who became MP for Cambridge University alongside Pitt. It is easy to imagine a brilliant young man such as Pitt, holder of a famous political name, exploding into the company of such a talented and politically motivated group. Pretyman tells us: ‘He was always the most lively person in company, abounding in playful wit and quick repartee; but never known to excite pain, or to give just ground of offence … Though his society was universally sought, and from the age of seventeen or eighteen he constantly passed his evenings in company, he steadily avoided every species of irregularity.’¹⁷ Whether by inclination, calculation, or awareness of so many eyes being upon the son of Chatham, Pitt was careful as a teenager to do nothing which would disgrace his family or return to haunt him. In any case, he had no need of excesses to make him popular with his peers. William Wilberforce, part of a more dissolute set at Cambridge at the time but later to become another lifelong friend, referred to his ‘distinctive peculiarity that he was not carried away by his own wit, though he could at any time command its exercise, and no man, perhaps, at proper seasons ever indulged more freely or happily in that playful facetiousness which gratifies all without wounding any’.¹⁸

Pitt’s Cambridge friends, then, provided lively company and intellectual stimulation, and while not subject to many vices undoubtedly drank a good deal of port together. They were, however, all of a type, generally the sons of noblemen, and all familiar with politics and classics. Pitt was friendly and charming in their company, but he gained no experience in dealing with other types of people in other situations. The latitudinarian and Newtonian influences on Cambridge at the time emphasised the power of reason, and Pitt would have met far fewer people who were impervious to rational persuasion than would have been the case elsewhere.

He would have encountered very few women indeed, and certainly none at all on equal terms or in any intellectual environment. Nor did he have to cope with the company of people not of his choosing. It may have been because of his Grenville starchiness or it may partly have been the result of his education in the cloistered atmosphere of his home and college that Pitt was to be known throughout his life as aloof, difficult and sometimes haughty towards most people he met. The pattern of his character was now set: a brilliant and tireless interest in practical questions, a tremendously relaxed and talkative enjoyment of chosen company, and a stern face presented to the outer world.

Outside the college dining rooms inhabited by Pitt and his friends, life in the city of Cambridge would have looked and sounded very much as it had done for many decades. The first paved street in the city appeared in 1788, some years after Pitt left Pembroke, and gas lighting did not follow until 1823, well after his death. Yet as the 1770s drew to a close the Britain beyond the walls of Oxbridge colleges was on the brink of a social and economic transformation which even the brilliant Cambridge graduates gathering to discuss public affairs could not possibly have foreseen. In the coming years they would have to respond to it, and their lives and careers would be increasingly shaped and buffeted by it.

War has always been a spur to invention, and the Seven Years’ War was no exception. The invention of the spinning jenny in 1764 and improvements upon it in the following years brought about a revolution in the cotton industry and British manufacturing. That revolution gathered pace as Pitt studied his books at Cambridge, and was to become a mighty engine of economic growth throughout his political career. Cotton exports from Britain were £200,000 in 1764, and had risen to £355,000 by 1780, but had rocketed to £9,753,000 by the time of Pitt’s death in 1806, going on to form nearly half of total British exports.¹⁹

The use of coal and coke in iron production was also getting under way, further transformed by the use of steam engines and blast furnaces from 1790. This was the dawn of the Industrial Revolution, and it would bring huge changes in the demography of Britain. By 1800, the great cities of manufacturing and trade such as Manchester, Liverpool, Birmingham, Leeds and Bristol would dwarf the previously largest cities (other than London) such as Norwich, Exeter and York. London was, and would remain, the largest city in the British Isles, but at the end of the eighteenth century many of what are today its central districts were still villages surrounded by fields. A German visitor, Carl Moritz, wrote of the view from the top of St Paul’s Cathedral in 1782: ‘beneath me lay a packed mass of towers, houses and palaces, with the London squares – their green lawns in their midst – adding pleasant splashes of colour in between. At one end of the Thames stood the Tower of London, like a city with a forest of masts behind it; at the other lay Westminster Abbey lifting up its towers. The green hills skirting the Paddington and Islington districts smiled at me from afar while nearer by lay Southwark on the opposite bank of the Thames.’²⁰ At this stage St James’s Park was ‘nothing more than a semi-circular avenue of trees enclosing a large area of greensward in the midst of which is a swampy pond. Cows feed on the turf and you may buy their milk quite freshly drawn from the animal.’²¹*

We do not know whether the future politicians gathered around the young Pitt discussed the first stirrings of the Industrial Revolution, but the ingredients were present all around them. Agricultural productivity was rising much faster than in neighbouring France, as farm sizes increased and the population began to move to the cities. Coal output in 1775 was already nearly three times what it had been in 1700. The growth of the cotton industry and trade with the expanding Empire provided new employment on a huge scale. Population growth, facilitated by the availability of food and work, started to accelerate, with the population of England growing from five and a half million to seven million between 1751 and 1781. By 1841 it would reach fifteen million.²² The transport system was beginning to improve, with the canals undergoing expansion to link manufacturing centres and ports, and turnpike roads growing rapidly from 1750 onwards.

The huge expansion and movements of population would create immense political and social strains, but at the time of Pitt’s Cambridge education these trends had yet to gather their full momentum. It would undoubtedly have seemed in the 1770s that such changes as were happening could be safely accommodated within the existing political and economic order. The real explosion of agricultural and manufacturing production and export growth took place after 1780, just as Pitt entered Parliament, when in a twenty-year period the proportion of national output exported rose from 9 per cent to 16 per cent even while a war of unprecedented intensity was raging. Pitt and his colleagues in government would face the challenge of coping with economic change on a scale never witnessed before, and at a time when that change was unpredictable and uneven. They would also be the last generation to conduct the business of the nation without the advantage of the dramatic advances in travel and communications which were also on the way.

Although Pitt, on his increasing forays to the capital, would find it possible in the late 1770s to eat breakfast in London and dinner (generally taken in the late afternoon) in Cambridge, road travel was still an arduous business. It was not practical at this time, nor would it be for some decades, to make a tour even of a country as small as England without spending weeks or months doing so and being incommunicado for part of the time. As a result, Pitt in office would rarely stray north of Northampton or west of Weymouth. When William Wilberforce rushed to a crisis public meeting in York in 1795, taking less than forty-eight hours to make the journey from Westminster, it was regarded as an extraordinary achievement, made possible only by extra teams of horses as well as outriders to clear people from the last twenty miles of the route. Within fifty years, he could have done it in nine hours on the train. The fact that advances in communications came later than a great deal of other economic change would limit the ability of politicians to understand what was happening and to respond to it quickly.

Throughout the whole of this period all orders and correspondence dealing with a burgeoning national economy and war on a global scale would have to be conveyed by letter carried by a despatch rider on a horse, or on board ship. The complications this entailed for international diplomacy would be unimaginable today. Wars could be declared while peace proposals were still on their way from a foreign capital. A message sent by sea did not necessarily travel faster than a fleet. In 1762, when the Seven Years’ War widened into conflict between Britain and Spain, the enterprising British Admiralty sent a message to British forces in India to set off immediately to attack the Spanish colony in Manila in the Philippines. Arriving seven months after the original message had been sent from London, the British achieved the ultimate surprise attack, since word had still not arrived from Madrid that war had been declared at all. Their ships sailed under the Spanish defenders’ guns unchallenged before launching their successful assault. In the Nootka Sound crisis of 1790, the interval between events on the ground on the west coast of North America and a response from London could be anything up to a full year. It is therefore vital to remember that governments of this period, including Pitt’s administrations, were often groping in the dark when dealing with war or disorder, guessing at events, and trying to remember to err on the side of caution. This would not help them to cope with the convulsions which would shake the world in their lifetimes.

The first of these convulsions, and one which ranked high in the conversations of Pitt and his friends, was already taking place in the 1770s. In 1775 the diverging interests of Britain and the thirteen American colonies exploded into war, and Pitt’s letters of the time are peppered with requests for news, information and documents relating to it. The repeal of the Stamp Act in 1766 had made Chatham a hero across the Atlantic, with statues of him erected in American towns, but ironically it was Chatham’s own victories that paved the way for this further and disastrous conflict. With the French cleared from Canada, the colonies had much less need of Britain to protect them. Instead, they found British commitments to Indian tribes getting in the way of the territorial expansion to the west which a rapidly growing American population now sought. And the emerging British Empire was now so vast and varied that the interests of one colony could be entirely different from the interests of the whole. When the British government reduced the duties on the export of tea to North America, it was meant to be excellent news for the troubled finances of the East India Company, but it was disastrous for the lucrative smuggling trade in Massachusetts. The result was the Boston Tea Party and, several years later, open conflict.

British political opinion was deeply divided over the developing war in America, but few in London would have doubted the capacity of Britain to bring the recalcitrant colonies to heel. The 350 ships and 25,000 soldiers assembled in America by the early summer of 1776 in the name of the King constituted an awesome display of military power. Yet they were to find, like the Americans themselves two centuries later in Vietnam, that regular troops fighting by conventional methods in vast, impenetrable terrain could win most of the battles but still not win the war.

Chatham, in his dying years, and after some time in which he took no part in politics, made three celebrated visits to the House of Lords to thunder against the folly of British policy. As Macaulay put it in his brilliant essay on Pitt, ‘Chatham was only the ruin of [the elder] Pitt, but an awful and majestic ruin, not to be contemplated by any man of sense and feeling without emotions resembling those which are excited by the remains of the Parthenon and of the Colosseum.’²³ In 1775 he called for conciliation of the colonies: ‘We shall be forced ultimately to retract; let us retract while we can not when we must.’ His son sat transfixed in the Gallery of the Lords, and his letter to his mother shows how he was now applying his judgement of classical speeches to contemporary debaters:

Nothing prevented his [Chatham’s] speech from being the most forcible that can be imagined … The matter and manner both were striking; far beyond what I can express … Lord Suffolk, I cannot say answered him … He was a contemptible orator indeed, with paltry matter and a whining delivery. Lord Shelburne spoke well … Lord Camden was supreme … Lord Rockingham spoke shortly but sensibly; and the Duke of Richmond well … Upon the whole, it was a noble debate.²⁴

On the second occasion, Chatham presciently warned that the war would soon widen into conflict with France and Spain, insisting on the need to make immediate peace with America. Once again, an excited son was in the Gallery:

I cannot help expressing to you how happy beyond description I feel in reflecting that my father was able to exert, in their full vigour, the sentiments and eloquence which have always distinguished him. His first speech took up half an hour, and was full of all his usual force and vivacity … He spoke a second time … This he did in a flow of eloquence, and with a beauty of expression, animated and striking beyond conception.²⁵

Chatham’s warnings went unheeded; strategic mistakes contributed to a serious British defeat at Saratoga, followed by rejoicing in Paris and the entry of France and later Spain and Holland into the war. The tired and dispirited head of the government, Lord North, asked George III for permission to resign and to sound out Chatham on the terms on which he would form a government. Not only did the King refuse, referring to Chatham as that ‘perfidious man’, but Chatham was now on his last legs. Against the advice of his doctors, he went to the House of Lords on 17 April 1778, entering the Chamber supported on the shoulders of William and his son-in-law, Lord Mahon. Dramatically, the entire House of Lords rose to greet him. It is hard to imagine that William Pitt ever forgot the poignancy of this moment and its illustration of the greatness of his father. Chatham’s voice was weak, and he was almost unable to stand; at times his speech wandered, but his message was clear: now the war had been widened it was too late to sue for peace. ‘Shall this great kingdom … fall prostrate before the House of Bourbon? … Shall a people that fifteen years ago was the terror of the world now stoop so low as to tell its ancient inveterate enemy, “Take all we have, only give us peace”. In God’s name … Let us at least make one effort; and if we must fall, let us fall like men!’²⁶ He sat down exhausted, and trying to rise to speak for a second time, fell backwards unable to do any more, a moment immortalised in Copley’s famous painting, as his sons John and William rushed to his aid. He was taken to Downing Street, then two days later to Hayes, and died on 11 May. The role of chief mourner at his father’s funeral the following month became Pitt’s first public duty.

The following month left Britain facing the growing prospect of defeat abroad and deeper divisions at home. The war with the colonies had been bluntly opposed not only by Chatham but by the main body of the Whig opposition under the Marquis of Rockingham. Many British officers, John Pitt among them, had refused to serve in the American campaigns. They were, however, happy to fight the Bourbons, and John Pitt was now despatched on the expedition to Gibraltar. By 1779 the French and Spanish fleets were cruising unmolested in the English Channel, the Royal Navy too weak and dispersed to fight them, and their waste washed ashore on the south-coast beaches of a humiliated Britain. When efforts to clear the Channel of the enemy failed, the government brought to court martial the naval commander Admiral Keppel, a leading Whig: this move backfired badly on them when Keppel was acquitted and the government was shown to have been seriously incompetent in equipping the navy for war. The opposition, the young Pitt among them, rejoiced. As crowds broke the windows of senior Ministers, Pitt wrote to Edward Eliot a letter which reveals his partisanship and his dry humour with friends:

I am just come from beyond the Throne in the House of Lords … The short Interval between the duties of a Statesman and a Beau, allows me just Time to perform that of a good Correspondent … I rejoice to hear that the good People of England have so universally exerted their natural Right of Breaking Windows, Picking Pockets etc. etc., and that these Constitutional demonstrations of Joy, are not confined to the Metropolis … The Conquering Hero himself has this evening made his Entry and every Window in London (a Metaphor I learnt in the House of Lords) is by this time acquainted with his Arrival … I begin to fear that the Clamour may subside, and the King still be Blest with his present faithful Servants. Most sincerely and illegibly Yours W. Pitt.²⁷

As Pitt prepared to leave Cambridge that year, opposition to the government of Lord North and to the King’s policies was in full cry, along with a widespread feeling that the political system was failing. Chatham had been followed by two weak Prime Ministers, the Duke of Grafton and Lord North, who had easily been dominated by the King. People beyond the ranks of the normal opposition began to accept that there was too much power vested in the Crown, too many placemen in key offices, too little competence in government, too little attention to the efficiency and effectiveness of the navy, too much waste of government money, and too little representation of large parts of the population. Early in 1780 there was uproar in the Commons as the opposition succeeded in carrying a motion that ‘the influence of the Crown has increased, is increasing, and ought to be diminished’.

The efforts of John Wilkes in the 1760s had helped to ignite radical and irreverent opinion. After Chatham’s departure from government in 1761 Wilkes had brought out a regular publication, the North Briton, which heaped insults on the Earl of Bute and the Royal Family. Outlawed, he eventually stood for Parliament in Middlesex, which had a wide franchise, and was repeatedly re-elected and repeatedly expelled by the Commons. The cry of ‘Wilkes and liberty’ had become a popular chant.

Spurred on by Edmund Burke, who coupled his passionate belief in tradition and monarchy with relentless criticism of the excesses of governments, opposition figures responded to this discontent by calling for ‘economical reform’ and ‘parliamentary reform’, and Pitt was to become an early devotee of both. Economical reform was directed at the patronage and alleged corruption of the system of offices surrounding the Crown. The objectives of its proponents were to reduce the number of sinecures and Crown offices, and to disqualify various placemen and contractors from being elected to the House of Commons while they were dependent on the patronage of the King. This programme was put forward by the Rockingham Whigs as a means of reversing the growth of the Crown’s power under Grafton and North. Parliamentary reform was supported more enthusiastically outside Parliament, largely by the growing middle class in the newly expanding cities who sought in various ways to redistribute the parliamentary seats, which were now completely adrift from the distribution of the population. Cornwall, for instance, had forty-four Members of Parliament, while the far greater population of London had ten.

The politicians of the time who put forward these reforms did not envisage that they were embarking on a long-term programme of political change. Their intention was to restore balance to what they regarded as a near-perfect constitutional settlement, arrived at in the Glorious Revolution of 1688 when William III and Mary replaced the fleeing James II. That settlement involved the ultimate supremacy of Parliament, a guaranteed Protestant succession to the Crown, and religious tolerance for all Protestants, even though Dissenters were still barred from political office. It was credited with maintaining a stability within Britain unheard of in previous centuries, and it had been achieved without bloodshed, unlike the overthrow of the monarchy in the English Civil War. It kept both the Crown and a wider democracy in check. To the Whigs of the late eighteenth century the need was to correct its balance rather than to rebuild it. Parliamentary reform received the backing of Chatham in his final years, and Pitt would start his career holding to these views, calling for both economical and parliamentary reform, a position true to the views of his father and the fashions of the time.

No student of history should underestimate the influence of the Glorious Revolution on the politicians of a century later. It was the basis of the country’s political framework, and many MPs would continue to vote against any alteration of constituency boundaries right up to 1832 in the belief that such a perfect settlement should not be violated in any respect. But it was also the basis of the country’s religious framework, and it is impossible to understand the politics of the eighteenth century without an appreciation of the role of religion in national life.

The Cambridge University attended by Pitt was not open to Roman Catholics, and served as a seminary for the Anglican clergy. We have seen how Pitt attended chapel twice a day in his early years at Pembroke. This was not because he was religious in feeling, but because religion was deeply interwoven with politics, custom and national outlook. Indeed, it was commonplace in society, as the debauched lives of many politicians demonstrated, to be irreligious in private while adhering unfailingly to the religious settlement inherent in 1688. The reason people felt strongly about religious questions was not in the main because they cared about the niceties of theological debates – any more than Henry VIII left the Church for theological rather than personal and political reasons – but because religion had come to symbolise the constitution of the country and its foreign policy.

Britain had fought endless wars by the end of the eighteenth century against His Most Christian Majesty the King of France, with the Stuart Kings of the seventeenth century having been suspiciously close, through the Catholic Church, to England’s historic foe. James II, whose behaviour precipitated the 1688 Revolution, even privately apologised to Louis XIV for summoning a Parliament without his permission.²⁸ Protestant Huguenots had fled to England from Catholic persecution in France, and it was Charles I’s attempts to plan a comeback with Catholics in Scotland and Ireland that had led to the second stage of the Civil War in the 1640s and to Cromwell’s merciless destruction of Catholic power in Ireland. In more recent memory, in both 1715 and 1745–46, Jacobite attempts to restore the Stuarts to the throne in place of the Hanoverians had been assisted by Catholic powers, specifically France and Spain. To the great majority of people in England it was therefore unthinkable to allow Catholics to hold office. Far beyond the Church and Parliament, Catholicism meant to most people treachery and invasion, bloodshed and persecution. Any acceptance that Catholics could have the rights and privileges of other Englishmen was therefore pandering to foreigners – in particular the French – returning to Jacobite sympathies and destroying a fundamental attribute of Englishness.

Just as the collapse of the Soviet Union two centuries later led to changes in political attitudes in the countries that had stood guard against it, so the collapse of the Jacobite threat after 1745 led to a steady breaking down of the political and religious battle lines in the late eighteenth century. Fear of the Jacobites had kept the suspect Tories out of office for a generation, and the Whigs, who prided themselves on the 1688 settlement, were permanently in power from 1714 to the 1760s. Now that party system had broken down, with parliamentary factions forming and re-forming, able to hold office in many combinations and putting leading Whigs out of office in the 1770s. To politicians the religious prohibitions were breaking down too, and many saw a need to amend the absolutism of the constitutional hostility to Roman Catholics. The conquest of Canada had brought vast numbers of Catholics of French descent into the British Empire. The Quebec Act of 1774 officially recognised the toleration of their religion. Added to that, the war in America made it essential to recruit soldiers who were Catholics, leading Parliament in 1778 to end the practice of requiring recruits to take an oath denying the supremacy of the Pope.

Beyond Westminster, many people who did not appreciate the need for such changes were suspicious of the motives behind them. Such suspicion was political dynamite, and it was accidentally detonated in the summer of 1780 by Lord George Gordon, leader of the Protestant Association. His attempt to take a petition to Parliament calling for the repeal of the 1778 Act resulted in a crowd of 60,000 forming across the river from the Palace of Westminster, siege being laid to Members of Parliament, and then five days and nights of perhaps the worst rioting London had ever experienced. Order was only restored after resolute action by the King, and the calling in of 15,000 troops and militia. Many hundreds of people were killed and scores of London’s most prized residences destroyed in untold scenes of savagery and destruction. Pitt, in his rooms at Lincoln’s Inn, was in the centre of it, apparently free from danger but witnessing London in flames in all directions. With the relaxed humour that was becoming his trademark he wrote to his mother: ‘Several very respectable lawyers have appeared with musquets on their shoulders, to the no small diversion of all spectators. Unluckily the Appearance of Danger ended just as we embodied, and our military Ardour has been thrown away.’²⁹ He could not have failed to notice, however, the huge power of religious issues, and the dangers of letting popular feelings run out of control. As he contemplated the end of what he called the ‘placid uniformity’ of Cambridge life, and the start of a political career, he was learning that great issues were at stake – of war and peace, of monarchical or parliamentary power, of the rights of religious minorities, and of how to administer and control a society changing unpredictably at home and suffering military humiliation abroad. It was a dramatic and exciting time to enter politics. If he was to have any influence on it, he needed a career, he needed money, and he needed a seat in Parliament.

* The main room of the set is now a function room, with portraits of Pitt and Gray on the walls.

* In his wonderful book recounting his travels in England, Moritz also remarks on the ‘incomparable’ English habit of ‘roasting slices of buttered bread before the fire … this is called “toast”’.

3 Ambition on Schedule

‘Appelby is the Place I am to Represent.’

WILLIAM PITT

‘A dead minister, the most respectable that ever existed, weighs very light in the scale against any living one.’

EARL TEMPLE

‘CHATHAM’, STANHOPE REMARKED in his 1860s biography of Pitt, ‘had been a little unthrifty.’¹ This was putting it mildly. On the death of Chatham in 1778, Parliament voted £20,000 – the equivalent of something approaching £2 million today* – to rescue his family and his memory from financial embarrassment. They also voted an annuity of £4,000 in perpetuity to the Earldom of Chatham, now inherited by William’s elder brother John. Theoretically, William Pitt was left £3,500 by his father. In practice, there was no money to honour this legacy, since the whole of the generous grant by Parliament would be taken up by his father’s debts. William had also been left a share of the mortgaged properties at Burton Pynsent and Hayes, but none of this came his way until Hayes was sold, by which time he was already Prime Minister. His total income as he prepared to move from Cambridge into the wider world was £600 a year, in the form of a grant from his elder brother. This was to prove insufficient for the needs of a young gentleman laying the foundations of his career and travelling about in the south-east of England a good deal. When he needed more he submitted a request to his mother. ‘My finances’, he tells her in November 1778, ‘are in no urgent Want of Repair; but if I should happen to buy a Horse they will be soon, and therefore, if it is not inconvenient to you, I shall be much obliged to you for a draught of 50£.’² Or in December 1779: ‘The approach of Christmas, and the expense of moving, oblige me to beg you to supply me with a draft of 60£.’³

He was particularly assiduous in assuring his mother that he would not drink too much or work too hard, as in this letter from Cambridge in January 1780:

The Charge of looking slender and thin when the doctor saw me, I do not entirely deny; but if it was in a greater degree than usual, it may fairly be attributed to the hurry of London, and an accidental cold at the Time … The use of the horse I assure you I do not neglect, in the properest medium; and a sufficient number of idle avocations secure me quite enough from the danger of too much study … Among the Principal Occupations of Cambridge at this Season of Christmas are perpetual College Feasts, a species of Exercise in which, above all others, I shall not forget your rule of moderation.⁴

His mother helped him financially whenever she could, but since the annuity settled upon Chatham by the King in 1761 and now due to her was frequently in arrears she was not always able to do so. Soon Pitt had borrowed £1,000 at 5 per cent from the friendly banker Mr Thomas Coutts, in return for his signing over the paternal legacy which would never be paid. In order to pursue a career at the Bar, however, he needed a residence at Lincoln’s Inn, which required still more substantial resources. He wrote hopefully to his mother:

It will very soon be necessary for me to have rooms at Lincoln’s Inn … The whole expense of these will be Eleven Hundred Pounds, which sounds to me a frightful sum … The rooms are in an exceeding good situation in the new Buildings, and will be perfectly fit for Habitation in about two months. Soon after that time it will be right for me to begin attending Westminster Hall during the term, and then chambers will be more convenient than any other residence … I have done no more than to secure that they may not be engaged to any other person till I have returned an Answer, and I shall be glad to know your opinion as soon as possible. You will be so good as to consider how far you approve of the idea, if it be practicable, and whether there are any means of advancing the money out of my fortune before I am of Age.⁵

Desperate to help him, his mother was no doubt behind the surprise suggestion by his uncle Earl Temple that he would advance Pitt the necessary sum. Having paid the first instalment, Earl Temple disobligingly died, and Pitt secured the chambers on the promise of his late uncle’s obligation, while mortgaging them the following year to obtain more cash. Already, at the age of twenty-one, he had dipped a toe into the vicious whirlpool that his personal finances would become.

From his late teens Pitt enjoyed the busy life of a young man who could move about freely, flitting between the family homes, attendance at Lincoln’s Inn and the Galleries of the Lords and Commons in London, and the reassuring intellectual security of Pembroke College. He was often in London with his brothers and sisters, frequently staying in Harley Street at the house of his older sister Hester, who in 1775 had married Lord Mahon, son of Earl Stanhope, and by early 1780 had three children. Pitt seems to have attended the opera occasionally, having developed a taste for music at Cambridge even though Pretyman subsequently insisted that he had ‘no ear’,⁶ and reported attending masquerades and evenings at the Pantheon,* but he was not keen on the wilder social events:

Nerot’s Hotel, Wednesday Night [1779]

James is gone with my sisters to the ball as a professed dancer, which stands in the place of an invitation; a character which I do not assume, and have therefore stayed away.

He continued to prefer more intellectual evenings. It was at a dinner in Lincoln’s Inn during the Gordon Riots that the celebrated encounter took place between the twenty-one-year-old Pitt and the already famous historian Edward Gibbon, who was publishing the second and third volumes of his momentous Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Another young lawyer, James Bland Burges, described how Gibbon had just concluded a series of ‘brilliant and pleasant’ anecdotes ‘with his customary tap on the lid of his snuff box’, when ‘a deep toned but clear voice was heard from the bottom of the table, very calmly and firmly impugning the correctness of the narrative, and the propriety of the doctrine of which it had been made the vehicle’. Gibbon saw

a tall, thin, and rather ungainly looking young man, who now sat quietly and silently eating some fruit. There was nothing very prepossessing or very formidable in his exterior, but, as the few words he had uttered appeared to have made a considerable impression on the company, Mr. Gibbon, I suppose, thought himself bound to maintain his honour by suppressing such an attempt to dispute his supremacy. He accordingly undertook the defence of the propositions in question, and a very animated debate took place between him and his youthful antagonist, Mr. Pitt, and for some time was conducted with great talent and brilliancy on both sides. At length the genius of the young man prevailed over that of his senior, who, finding himself driven into a corner from which there was no escape, made some excuse arising from the table and walked out of the room.

Gibbon stalked out ‘in high dudgeon’, and ‘when we returned into the dining-room we found Mr. Pitt proceeding very tranquilly with the illustration of the subject from which his opponent had fled, and which he discussed with such ability, strength of argument, and eloquence, that his hearers were filled with profound admiration’.⁷

It had been clear for some years that a career as a lawyer would be a fallback for Pitt, and the proximity to the House of Commons of the law courts, literally yards away in and around Westminster Hall, provided an additional incentive for him. As it turned out, his legal career was not long, but during it he again showed his usual mixture of easy ability and high popularity in private company. Another lawyer of the time recalled: ‘Among lively men of his own time of life, Mr. Pitt was always the most lively and convivial in the many hours of leisure which occur to young unoccupied men on a Circuit, and joined all the little excursions to Southampton, Weymouth, and such parties of amusement as were habitually formed. He was extremely popular. His name and reputation of high acquirements at the university commanded the attention of his seniors. His wit, his good humour, and joyous manners endeared him to the younger part of the Bar.’⁸

He was called to the Bar in the summer of 1780, but it is clear throughout all his correspondence that his overriding fascination remained with politics. In the summer of 1779 it was thought by some that Parliament might be dissolved two years ahead of its maximum seven-year term. The war was going badly, Lord North and his colleagues appeared dejected and the King was even forced to preside at a Cabinet meeting to try to deter North’s enemies from attacking his First Minister. Pitt turned his thoughts to how and where he could enter Parliament.

Pitt wanted to be in Parliament from the earliest possible date, but it did not accord with his concept of himself simply to represent any constituency which was available. He had a very clear idea of where he wished to represent, and from the summer of 1779 expressed an explicit interest in being one of the two Members for Cambridge University.* This was not simply because he spent a good deal of time there and was familiar with the place, since there was little need in this period for most Members of Parliament to know or to spend time in their constituencies. Rather it was because from the outset he wanted to be a particular type of politician, and that would require a particular type of constituency.

From the perspective of the twenty-first century, accustomed as we are to universal suffrage and the periodic redrawing of constituency boundaries to keep up with the changing distribution of population, the electoral basis of the House of Commons in the eighteenth century seems extraordinary and chaotic. It was not democratic in any modern sense of the term, and was not intended to be; but it was intended to ensure that the interests of every part of the country were represented, and that an element of competition took place among the aristocracy and country gentry as to who would have access to power and the spoils of office.

The House of Commons in 1780 had 558 Members, around a hundred fewer than today, with 489 from England, forty-five from Scotland and twenty-four from Wales. Ireland had a separate Parliament which was to be given increased powers in 1782, so there were no Irish seats in the House of Commons at this stage. Only the English constituencies were of interest to Pitt as he sought his first election to Parliament. Of these the generally most prestigious were the forty counties, each of which elected two Members. For two reasons, however, these were of little appeal to a politician who aspired to high office. First, they had a relatively wide franchise, embracing all males who owned the freehold of land with a rental value of more than forty shillings a year, and could have electorates running into many thousands. A contested election in Yorkshire, for instance, could easily produce 20,000 voters at the poll. As a result they were extremely expensive to contest (William Wilberforce’s two opponents in Yorkshire in 1807 reportedly spent over £100,000 each – the equivalent of more than £5 million), and the funds had to be found by the candidate, or a rich patron, or his supporters. Often huge sums were spent on a ‘canvass’ of county seats to see whether it was worth putting a particular candidate forward before embarking on the immense expense and trouble of actually contesting the election. In the 1780 election, only two counties would actually go to the lengths of having a contest.

As an additional obstacle it had been agreed in 1707, as part of an earlier attempt to rein in the patronage of the Crown, that an MP accepting an office of profit from the Crown such as a ministerial position would resign his seat and fight a by-election. This practice continued into the early twentieth century, sometimes leading to the defeat of freshly appointed Ministers such as Winston Churchill in 1908. In the eighteenth century the expense of fighting a county seat over and over again would have prohibited a ministerial career. On the whole, the counties were represented by ‘independent country gentlemen’ from long-established local families, but occasionally a contested county could give great authority to a popular campaign, such as the repeated re-election of John Wilkes for Middlesex in the 1760s.

By far the most numerous constituencies were the 203 cities and boroughs which elected 405 Members between them. These were heavily weighted to the south-west of the country and to seaports, and were still based on the wealth and prominence of towns in mediaeval times. The entitlement to vote in these constituencies varied hugely, sometimes being relatively wide as in the counties (the City of Westminster itself being an example), sometimes limited to the few dozen members of the corporation of the town, and sometimes limited to the owners of certain properties or ‘burgages’. It was thus variously possible to control a borough by instructing the voters, by bribing the corporation, or simply by owning sufficient burgages. Landowners would commonly instruct their tenants how to vote, and since the voting itself was openly recorded this rarely left the voters with much of a choice. In other circumstances voters could sell themselves to the highest bidder. As Thomas Pitt wrote in 1740: ‘There are few [Cornish] boroughs where the common sort of people do not think they have as much right to sell themselves and their votes, as they have to sell their corn and their cattle.’⁹ The provision of meals and alcohol was a standard part of such bribery; alcohol could be useful in other ways too, as George Selwyn, MP for Gloucester, complained in 1761. ‘Two of my voters were murdered yesterday by an experiment which we call shopping, that is, locking them up and keeping them dead drunk to the day of election. Mr. Snell’s agents forced two single Selwyns into a post chaise, where, being suffocated with the brandy that was given them and a very fat man that had the custody of them, they were taken out stone dead.’¹⁰

Over half of the boroughs could be purchased in one way or another, an average price in the late eighteenth century being around £3,000 to £4,000. They would be bought by the major political families, who might control half a dozen such seats; or by ‘Nabobs’ returning with money from India and seeking to use their wealth to purchase influence; or, amazingly by the standards of later centuries, by the Treasury itself, which would often use several tens of thousands of pounds of the King’s money, and some of the taxpayer’s, to procure the election of government candidates in a general election.

Pitt set his face against contesting most of these constituencies. He could not afford the expense of fighting one of the truly open boroughs, nor was he well enough known in any of them to have a chance of success. He did not want to be instructed how to vote in Parliament by a patron who had purchased his election, and he was not a supporter of the government. He received tentative offers from his cousins of the old family borough of Old Sarum, which Thomas Pitt had pawned to the Treasury in 1761 as he fled bankruptcy, and of Buckingham, which was in the pocket of Earl Temple. Not only were these offers vague, but he told his mother he was worried that taking them up could not ‘be done on a liberal, Independent Footing’.¹¹ For Pitt was even now pursuing the ideal of being different from other politicians. He already combined a radiant intellectual self-confidence with his deep sense of being Chatham’s son, and Chatham had cultivated at the high points of his career the notion of detachment and independence from party and patronage (although he had been happy to represent the pocket boroughs of the Duke of Newcastle for many years). Pitt, who was carried along by the demands for economical and parliamentary reform as the answer to the corruption and waste so evident under Lord North, aspired to succeed in politics through ‘character’ rather than through ‘influence’. Steeped in the classical texts which praised the ‘virtue’ of outstanding figures, he could be forgiven for envisaging his own heroic role as an answer to the corruption of the times and a reinforcement of the traditions of his father. He already knew enough not to be naïve about political methods, and would be happy to let ‘influence’ be used on his behalf, but throughout his entire career he would seek to maintain the independence and incorruptibility of his own character, and at all costs the appearance of it.

Thus it was idealism as well as familiarity which led him to seek election for Cambridge University. ‘It is a seat of all others’, he wrote to his mother in July 1779, ‘the most desirable, as being free from expense, perfectly independent, and I think in every respect extremely honourable … You will perhaps think the idea hastily taken up, when I tell you that six Candidates have declared already; but I assure you that I shall not flatter myself with any vain hopes.’¹²

It is not clear who had encouraged Pitt to have such hopes, for vain they appeared to be for a twenty-year-old up against the long-established candidates of the main political groupings. Writing for support to opposition figures, he received a rather dusty reply from the Marquis of Rockingham: ‘I am so circumstanced from the knowledge I have of several persons who may be candidates, and who indeed are expected to be so, that it makes it impossible for me in this instance to show the attention to your wishes which your own as well as the great merits of your family entitle you to.’¹³ He also received a rather patronising putdown from the normally helpful Earl Temple: ‘As to your prospect of success, I cannot form any opinion … How far it may be advisable for you before you have more ripened in your profession to launch out into the great ocean of politicks … is a matter of great doubt … The memory of your father & the great character you have attained speak forcibly in your favour; but a dead minister, the most respectable that ever existed, weighs very light in the scale against any living one.’¹⁴

Pitt the young idealist was not put off by this lofty discouragement, and commenced his canvassing.* He busied himself writing to acquaintances around the university, ‘I rely on the support of my own College and my musical friends, both which characters, I hope prejudice you in my favour.’¹⁵ But in the event there was to be no election in 1779. In early 1780 Pitt was still sitting in the Gallery of the Commons watching the debates of the same Parliament, the North administration still battling on. His letters exulted in seeing the government defeated several times: ‘What the consequence will be, cannot be guessed, but I have no ideas of Ministry being able to stand.’¹⁶ He watched excitedly as Edmund Burke – ‘I had no Idea till now of his Excellence’¹⁷ – brought in his sweeping proposals for economical reform, seeking to abolish the special royal jurisdictions in Wales, Cheshire, Lancaster and Cornwall, to reduce the Civil List through which money was provided to the King, and to abolish the offices of Master of the Household, Treasurer, Comptroller, Cofferer, the Board of the Green-Cloth, the Wardrobe Office, the Jewel Office, the Keepers of Stag Hounds, Buck Hounds, Fox Hounds, and many other Crown offices. A Bill was introduced to exclude government contractors from being Members of Parliament, along with the presentation of damning evidence of their greed and inefficiency. At last major reform seemed in the offing.

Yet Pitt also watched as one by one Burke’s proposals were watered down and then abandoned, and as the much-vaunted Contractors Bill was crushed in the House of Lords. He watched Lord North take on the chin the famous motion condemning the influence of the Crown, and then render it meaningless by defeating a motion asking the King not to dissolve Parliament until the influence of the Crown at elections had been diminished. Pitt learnt the lesson, one he would not forget as he led a government facing a hostile House of Commons only four years later, that even a government assailed on all sides can tough it out for a time if it sticks together and has the solid support of the King. And he soon learnt a second lesson: a government working with the King could spring a nasty surprise.

Parliament rose in mid-August after a long and exhausting session. No sooner had opposition politicians relaxed into their summer watering holes than, on 1 September, George III agreed to North’s request that Parliament be dissolved and an immediate general election announced. With the opposition surprised and disorganised, opinion backing the government against the recent Gordon Riots, and the Treasury’s money doing its work in marginal cases, the North administration was confident of broadly maintaining its majority. By now Pitt had secured the support of the Earl of Shelburne, who led a small band of parliamentarians still loyal to the memory of Chatham. He wrote an effusive letter of thanks, saying he was ‘truly sensible of this fresh instance of that friendly assistance which our family has eminently experienced from your Lordship’.¹⁸ When the election was called, Pitt rushed to Cambridge, but his contest was hopeless. On 16 September it was announced that he had come bottom of the poll of five candidates, the two seats for Cambridge University being won by a sitting Member who supported the government and a previous runner-up who was a strong follower of Rockingham. Pitt had been squeezed out. He wrote philosophically to his mother:

Pemb. Hall, Sept. 16 [1780),

My dear Mother,

Mansfield and Townshend have run away with the Prize, but my struggle has not been dishonourable.

I am just going to Cheveley [the seat of the Duke of Rutland] for a day or two, and shall soon return to you for as long as the law will permit, which will now be probably the sole object with me. I hope you are all well.

Your ever dutiful and affectionate

W. Pitt¹⁹

It was not an easy autumn for the family. Pitt’s sister Hester had never fully recovered from the birth of her third child in February. She died in July. Over the next few years Pitt and his bereaved brother-in-law Lord Mahon would become close friends, but this was a sad time made even worse by the news the following year that the youngest brother, James, had died on naval service in the West Indies at the end of 1780. Pitt wrote to Pretyman: ‘I have to regret the loss of a brother who had every thing that was most amiable and promising, every thing that I could love and admire; and I feel the favourite hope of my mind extinguished by this untimely blow. Let me however, assure you, that I am too much tried in affliction not to be able to support myself under it; and that my poor mother and sister, to whom I brought the sad account yesterday, have not suffered in their health, from so severe a shock.’²⁰

With the death of Earl Temple the previous year, Pitt’s mother had now lost in rapid succession her husband, elder brother, eldest daughter and youngest son. After Hester’s death William spent time at Hayes or Burton Pynsent with his mother, and at other times kept up his flow of excited and informative letters. By November 1780 he could report at last that he would be a Member of Parliament. His Cambridge friend Lord Granby had now succeeded his grandfather as Duke of Rutland. Wanting to see Pitt in Parliament as soon as possible, he approached his friend Sir James Lowther, who controlled a number of boroughs in the north of England. As Lowther’s cousin William had been returned in the election for both Appleby and Carlisle and chose to sit for the latter, Lowther needed a new Member for Appleby. Such rearrangements in the few months after a general election were entirely customary in the eighteenth century. Lowther had a reputation as a rather dominating patron, but he was prepared to lift any normal conditions for the son of Chatham. Pitt wrote to his mother:

Lincoln’s Inn, Thursday night [November 1780]

My dear Mother,

I can now inform you that I have seen Sir J. Lowther, who has repeated to me the offer He had before made, and in the handsomest manner. Judging from my Father’s Principles, He concludes that mine would be agreeable to his own, and on that Ground, to me of all others the most agreeable desires to bring me in. No Kind of Condition was mentioned, but that if ever our Lines of Conduct should become opposite, I should give Him an opportunity of choosing another Person. On such Liberal Terms I could certainly not hesitate to accept the proposal, than which Nothing could be in any respect more agreeable. Appleby is the Place I am to represent, and the Election will be made (probably in a week or Ten days) without my having any trouble, or even visiting my constituents.²¹

The offer from Lowther was liberal enough to provide Pitt with freedom of action unless he completely reversed his political stance. William Pitt, aged twenty-one, was now a Member of Parliament.

*Assessments of inflation over such long periods are at best approximate. In this book any illustrations of the present-day value of money in Pitt’s time are based on the index agreed in 2003 by the House of Commons Library, the Bank of England and the Office of National Statistics.

*The Pantheon, on Oxford Street to the east of Oxford Circus, was a prominent venue for concerts and dances and was described by Horace Walpole as ‘the most beautiful edifice in England’. Today the site is occupied by a store of Marks & Spencer.

*Cambridge and Oxford Universities had two Members each. The University Members were finally abolished in 1948.

*The franchise in the universities was based on membership of the University Senate, and was thus possessed only by academics. These constituencies were also unusual in having a secret ballot. The electorate of Cambridge University was a little over seven hundred strong in the early 1780s.

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