at the strides I had seen made towards arbitrary power; but having beheld the cowardice of Lord Bute, and knowing that of Lord Mansfield, and finding the nation delivered from the influence of Fox, I had flattered myself the danger was over. I had been pleased, too, that Grenville was become the acting minister; having (I confess my blindness) entertained a most favourable opinion of his integrity. He talked nothing but reformation—which, indeed, alone, would not have duped me—I had seen too much of patriot hypocrisy! but he went beyond myself in his principles of liberty—I mean, in his discourse. I thought him a grounded Republican; had heard him harangue by the hour against the despotic doctrines of Lord Mansfield. Nor had his venal prostitution of himself to Lord Bute as yet opened my eyes. But I was again roused by the arbitrary treatment of Wilkes, committed close prisoner to the Tower by an indefinite warrant. Lord Bute, I saw, had left his cloak to his successors; yet I could not believe that my friend, Algernon Sydney, (for Grenville appeared to me as scarce a less Whig saint,) was capable of concurring in such measures. In truth, when I saw Saint Sandwich added to his rubric, I began to be startled. I saw him lean, too, on the Bedfords: them I did not love: and nothing is a more sovereign cure for blindness in friendship, than a connection between one’s friends and one’s enemies. I laboured by those most in Grenville’s confidence to detach him from so disreputable an union; but Grenville knew his interest better than I knew him. Still I had not the most distant suspicion of what his heart was capable of, nor any view of opposing his administration. Thinking him as frank and candid as myself, and thoroughly shocked at the use made of General Warrants, I desired Mr. Thomas Pitt,410 attached to Mr. Grenville, and my own friend, to tell him fairly in the summer, that I believed I should differ with him when the point of General Warrants should be agitated in Parliament. But not content with opposing them myself, I earnestly desired that Mr. Conway should take the same step: and in bringing that about, I by no means piqued myself on the same frankness. Should Lord Hertford conceive the least suspicion of my intentions, I knew how sedulously he would labour to prevent his brother from involving himself against the Court. He might procure Mr. Conway to be again sent aside on some honourable commission, or contrive to have his gratitude dipped in favours from the King, before he should be aware with what view they were bestowed. I waited therefore in silence and patience till Lord Hertford was set out on his embassy to Paris, before I ever named the term General Warrants in the presence of Mr. Conway. Then, indeed, I asked him, as by accident, how he intended to vote on that business, telling him I should wish to act as he did. I found he was disgusted at the Warrants; and thence I easily entered into agreement with him to oppose them, as we did, no other person living having any previous intimation of his intention. The Court was alarmed; and Grenville sent Mr. Thomas Pitt to me to sound me on that head; both of them believing that I had rather been influenced by Conway, than he by me.
Pitt began with Mr. Grenville’s concern at Mr. Conway’s behaviour, wished to know what had disgusted him, and was ready to obtain for him whatever his warmest wishes could aim at. I assured him he was thoroughly mistaken; that no disgust had taken possession of Mr. Conway; that no man was less ambitious; and that I advised Mr. Grenville, as a friend, not to think of treating Mr. Conway as a man to be bought. That really would disgust him, and might throw him into Opposition, of which I was sure at present he had no thoughts,—and thus far I really spoke with good wishes to Mr. Grenville,—but the scene soon changed. Finding bribes rejected, Pitt altered his tone: said it could not be suffered to have men in the King’s service acting against him,—and then dropped this unguarded expression, the King could not trust his army in such hands. I started. “Good God!” said I, “Mr. Pitt, what are they going to do with the army? to what use is it to be put, if a man of Mr. Conway’s virtue, and tried loyalty and bravery, cannot be trusted with a regiment? You alarm me!” He beat about backwards and forwards: sometimes it was offers and promises, sometimes threats; but I had taken my part, and had got hold of words I was determined not to part with or forget. I would say no more, but that I advised Mr. Grenville to have patience; that I knew Mr. Conway neither was in, nor was going into, Opposition (for they were jealous of his connection with the Duke of Devonshire), and that I was sure he would never be influenced, would never act but from principle; and if they would leave him to himself they would have no reason to be dissatisfied,—and I told them the truth, if they had had sense enough to believe me. Mr. Pitt then pressed me to talk it over with Mr. Grenville, which I declined. I said, I would certainly never give Mr. Conway any dishonourable advice; would never try to persuade him to be bribed or terrified; nor would he forgive me if I should. Pitt persisted. I said, “Mr. Pitt, I am persuaded Mr. Grenville will never report my conversation differently from the truth: but though he may not intend it, he may mistake me; I may mistake him. I will wait on him, upon condition a third person is present. I do not desire it may be a friend of mine, and not his: you are a friend to both; and though justly much more attached to him than to me, I am persuaded, if any difference should arise between us in the relation of the interview, you have too much honour not to do strict justice to either. If you may be present, I will meet him,—but remember, I tell you it will be to no purpose.” In truth, after such a Star-Chamber sentence as the King cannot trust his army in the hands of a man who votes in Parliament against him, I was not disposed to labour in cementing an union between my friend and a man of such apostate degeneracy. From that hour all my prejudices in Grenville’s favour were dispelled. I saw how dangerous he was: it was Fox with a fairer character.
Though I had given too little encouragement to expect any alteration either in Mr. Conway’s or my own sentiments, Grenville persisted in the interview. I went accordingly to Mr. Thomas Pitt’s. It happened to be the evening of the riot on burning the North Briton. Grenville arrived in the most ridiculous and extraordinary disorder I ever saw. He could scarce articulate for passion. One would have thought the City had been taken by storm and the guards cut to pieces. Yet this was not a panic. It was rage to see authority set at nought while he was minister. His subsequent conduct gave evidence that this was his sensation: no man ever bore power with more pride. For some time I could scarce learn what had provoked him: the confusion of his ideas made him talk as if Mr. Conway had raised a rebellion. Commanding my laughter, and waiting with patience till the torrent should have spent itself, but to no purpose, I was forced at last to ask what the riot had to do with Mr. Conway’s case? This unfortunate question, like snatching a pebble from amidst a cascade, did but make it dash at random on all sides. From seven in the evening till ten at night, I sat to hear his inundation of words, scarce uttering ten myself; and we parted with as little fruit as might be expected from a conversation so intemperate and disjointed; the result of all I said being to repeat my request that he would have patience, and assuring him that he would not find Mr. Conway engaged in any regular opposition.
Whether it proceeded from his impatience of contradiction, whether from eagerness to carry his point, or whether privately instigated by the Bedfords to push on an explanation which they hoped might drive Mr. Conway into settled hostilities, or whether, which I think most likely, they flattered themselves they should regain him from my influence, Grenville desired an interview with Conway himself. He consulted me, and we agreed that he should act as I had done, and insist on a third person being present, proposing the Duke of Richmond,411 his son-in-law, who however could not be exceptionable, as he acted uniformly with the Court. This demand produced a new scene of ridiculous distress. Though the meeting had been proposed, and Mr. Conway’s answer sent by noon, it was not till ten at night that Mr. Grenville could bring himself to any resolution; being, as his servant owned, shut up for the greatest part of the time with his wife,412 a proud, ambitious, and sensible woman, and the only person to whom he would listen. She, indeed, had full dominion over him. The precautions taken both by Mr. Conway and me had put Grenville on his guard: not a word dropped from him intimating bribery. The meeting ended fruitlessly, as we had foreseen. Conway was naturally cold, and Grenville far from being master of ingratiating persuasion. Conway adhered to the declaration that he was engaged in no opposition. His subsequent behaviour amply confirmed that assurance; but a new measure of obedience was set up, and my late republican friend was become as strict a disciplinarian as the most arbitrary of his predecessors.
CHAPTER XXV.
Marriage