Parliamentary oratory, and yet more rapidly advancing in the estimation
and confidence of the people. During the Sessions of 1817 and 1818 he
mitigated many parts of the coercive bills. His arguments against capital
punishment made slow but deep impression on the public, and, though still
a lawyer in the greatest practice, he was at that period more nearly the
leader of the Whig party in the House of Commons than any other member.
Brougham, who, I fear, from motives of jealousy had much derided the
tribute paid to the memory of Horner, yet avowed and felt some deference
for Romilly.
It was, I think, in 1817 that I moved an inquiry into the treatment
of Napoleon at St. Helena. Information derived from Count Montholon
and from the Bonaparte family fully justified my statement; but the
injudicious and exaggerated reports printed by a _valet-de-chambre_[257]
enabled Lord Bathurst,[258] by refuting what I did _not say_ and quoting
the publication instead of my speech, to assume the appearance of
contradicting what I _did_ say. I did not divide, though Lord Darnley,
never deficient in natural generosity, showed some disposition to urge it
on the House.
In general, my political friends both in the Lords and the Commons,[259]
with the exception of Lord Ebrington[260] and Mr. Abercromby[261] (for I
do not reckon such a restless busybody as Sir Robert Wilson), were shy
of meddling with a subject which they ignorantly deemed unpopular in the
public and positively knew to be offensive at Court. I had and have the
satisfaction of believing that my motion, ill-supported as it was, had
an effect in alleviating the ill-treatment of a great man: but, having
recorded all I know of him in another chapter of this work, I pass to
other subjects in this.
I spent the summer and autumn of 1817 in Holland and at Paris. It was
remarked to me by Mr. A. Baring,[262] and the remark was confirmed by
M. Pozzo di Borgo,[263] that the intense application of the Duke of
Wellington to the financial parts of the treaty, combined with his known
sagacity in adapting his means to his ends, indicated that his views on
returning to England would be directed to the Treasury. He did, in truth,
devote his mind most earnestly to the financial Committee, and studied
most intensely the questions of currency, resumption of cash payments,
taxation, expenditure, and exchanges.
During the recess Lord Sidmouth attempted to justify his silly alarms
of revolution by yet more silly prosecutions against writings termed
seditious and blasphemous. Hone was indicted for an innocent parody.[264]
It was hypocritically represented as intended to bring the Scriptures
into ridicule, and the Prince Regent affected much sanctimonious
resentment at those who abetted blasphemy and profaneness by charitably
subscribing to alleviate the sufferings of a persecuted bookseller. Many
of them, and the Duke of Bedford particularly, were distinguished in
their stations for their attachment and reverence for religion; but it
was pretended that disapprobation of so indecorous an act as the relief
of a blasphemer was the motive for preferring Lord Grantham,[265] with
neither residence nor property and only an expectancy in Bedfordshire, to
the Duke, who had the largest property, and Woburn Abbey, in that county.
The Duke was more nettled than became him at being so passed over. He
wrote the Prince Regent a letter, which, like most from his pen, was well
composed. It met with general applause. Yet to me it seemed, in judgment,
defective and, in principle, almost indefensible. Not so thought the
public. Truth is, the English people love high spirit combined with high
rank. Whenever in assertions, even of unreasonable pretensions, a strong
feeling of independence is expressed by a man of station and family, not
only the multitude and his own party, but the whole community, are ready
to applaud, and even his antagonists to respect and admire him.
The vacancy of [the] Lieutenancy in Bedfordshire in February, 1818, was
occasioned by the death of my maternal uncle, John, second Earl of Upper
Ossory, a man of taste and philosophy, to whom during childhood and youth
I was beholden for tenderness and advice almost paternal, and who left me
the estate and mansion of Ampthill[266]—a bequest munificent in itself,
and to me beyond all value, from the recollection of those who had
inhabited it and of the happy hours, days, months, and years I had spent
in their society.
Lord Ossory had not that force of mind which public life demands or
creates, nor the habits of intense application to any object of ambition
or vanity. He had too much respect, not to say awe, of the opinion of
the world to make any strong or lasting impression; but he was far from
being a common man. In all branches of taste his perceptions were quick
and just, and on every question, private and public, his judgment was
sound and his expression of it distinct and sincere. No less a person
than David Hume predicted of him, when a young man at Paris, that he
would distinguish himself as much as Charles Fox. Perhaps the very
qualities which captivated that great philosopher, _viz._, an unusual
calmness of judgment, blended with some distrust of anything approaching
to vehemence or enthusiasm, extinguished all ambition in Lord Ossory, and
taught him to seek refuge in a tame and inglorious, but not unlettered or
irrational, life in the country. He was, though not _ingenti perculsus
amore_, a genuine worshipper of the Muses, and far from insensible to
the charms of literature or unskilled in the pursuit of many branches
of natural philosophy. Not many days before his death, he, to my great
satisfaction, expressed, with a warmth unusual in him, his approbation
of the tone of indignation and scorn in which I had spoken in the Lords
of the hypocrisy of the prosecution against Hone. Such testimony, from
a person little disposed to palliate the excesses of the press or to
sympathise in the exaggerations of a party, was a proof that Government
had assumed the attitude of hostility to the current of popular
feeling. To that obvious error much subsequent discontent, as well as
many difficulties we had to encounter for years afterwards, were mainly
attributable.
During the Session of 1818, and especially on the Indemnity Bill,[267] I
acquired by practice more fluency in public speaking than I had hitherto
possessed, and got the ear of the House to a degree that placed me higher
in the rank of speakers than I had hitherto aspired to be or perhaps
could ever really deserve.
That Session commenced in January, 1818. The Ministers, questioned by me,
announced an intention of repealing the Suspension Act[268] before the
address was moved; and, on the motion of it, Lord Stanhope,[269] the very
opposite of his father in political principle and greatly inferior in
talent and knowledge, but, like him, suspicious and eccentric, delivered
a speech, good in language but strange in conception, in which he
lamented that the first sentence in Cæsar had not been made the leading
article of the treaty of Peace (_Gallia omnis divisa est in partes
tres_), and much of a like tendency and taste.
Lord Liverpool boggled at the epithet he should use in alluding to
his oration, and after some hesitation designated it, as “certainly a
remarkable speech.” As Stanhope had called France “a conquered, abject,
and despicable country,” it made more sensation in Paris than London.
It is said the French Ambassador remonstrated with Lord Liverpool for
calling Lord Stanhope his “Noble friend.” It hurried Lady Stanhope from
France, where she was then residing, and it required, according to
rumour, the good office of friends, as well as some discreet compliances
on the part of Lord Stanhope to which his nature had no particular
repugnance, to protect him from all personal indignity from French bravos
who would be patriots.
The earnest and repeated debates on the Indemnity Bill had some effect
on the country, none whatever within the walls of Parliament. The
divisions were bad, the Whig party dispirited and disunited. At the
close of the Session some little spirit was raised on the renewal of
that odious measure, the Alien Act. A method of evading its provisions,
by purchasing stock in the Scotch Bank, under an Act of George I., was,
at the instigation of Lord Lauderdale (the last expedient, I fear, his
ingenuity ever exerted in favour of popular rights) resorted to by
General Flahault.[270] A more factious attempt to defeat this manœuvre
by an _ex post facto_ clause, moved by Lord Melville, was baffled by
myself and others prolonging the debate on the third reading in [the]
Lords till the House of Commons was up. There was no time for getting
through the formalities of agreement on our amendments without deferring
the Commission and the Prorogation, and in the choice of disasters the
Government submitted to the dreadful one of having a French officer
a naturalised subject of the kingdom in which his wife was a native
and a peeress. On this Alien Bill Sir Samuel Romilly had taken a very
prominent part, and on the ensuing dissolution he was chosen, against a
virulent opposition both of Tories and Radicals, for Westminster: thus
commencing to all appearance a career in politics as brilliant as that
he had run in his profession. But all these expectations terminated in
a scene of distress and horror, such as may, indeed, [have] been found
in the theatre or in romance, but rarely in the tragedies of real life.
His wife had died after much bodily suffering in the Isle of Wight, and
he, being brought up with great difficulty to London in a state of deep
melancholy, put an end to his existence two or three days after his
arrival in Russell Square.
[Illustration: _Sir Samuel Romilly_
_J. Hoppner, R.A. Pinx_
_Emery Walker Ph. Sc._]
Mr. Dumont,[271] who accompanied him on his journey, and who endeavoured
to relieve him by exciting his tears, told me that on being reminded in
passing Holland House that his children were there, he betrayed some
symptom of emotion, but rapidly relapsed into the deep depression of
spirits which betokened his despair and should have admonished his friend
of the consequences of it. It is singular, but true, that an epitaph
recording the sudden death[272] (probably the suicide) of an uncle of the
same name following that of his wife, was discovered on a tombstone in
one of the churches of London.
Romilly was a man of strong sensibility and as strong opinions,
indulgent even to tenderness to those he loved. He had neither vanity
nor guile; but he was not perhaps entirely exempt from that gall which
intense pursuit of an object engenders in a proud and ardent but pure
and affectionate mind. His powers of reflection and reasoning were of
the very highest order, and he was capable of unbounded devotion to a
cause. There have been seasons and countries, in which the elements of
which his head and heart were composed would have fermented into zeal
and fanaticism. His early admiration of Rousseau, though afterwards
checked by the practice of a subtle, discriminating, and distrustful
profession on one hand, and counteracted by the more grovelling and
selfish maxims of his friend Bentham on the other, had wellnigh moulded
his genuine philanthropy into something of that shape and appearance,
but did, in fact, leave nothing but the traces of gentle, refined, and
over-nice sensibility and extensive philanthropy, more engaging and
exemplary perhaps than practicable. Yet no advocate was more apt to
persuade himself that his client’s cause was the best in the world, and
none certainly was more eager and earnest in enforcing that opinion. In
spite of his great legal aptitude of understanding, he formed a striking
and honourable exception to the pliability of principle so often and
so justly objected [to] in our legal politicians. Far from being too
temporising or too accommodating, he was more fixed and invariable in his
private and public principles, on both great and small occasions, than is
either common or convenient or perhaps desirable in a practical public
man.
He has left memoirs of himself; I was permitted to read them in
1835.[273] The portrait, drawn by his own pen, of a mind struggling
with adversity and panting not so much for distinction or celebrity as
for the reward of self-applause from an approving conscience, forms a
valuable and curious piece of biography. Over-scrupulous tenderness for
his memory induced his family for a time to withhold it from the public,
a production which must raise his moral character and intellectual powers
in the estimation of the good and thinking part of mankind. It was the
project of Mr. Brougham and others to place him at the head of the party
on the meeting of Parliament. It was defeated by the stroke of death.
The inconvenience of a mixed and undisciplined band without any positive
commander in the Commons was obvious; and our active friends in the House
and the busybodies at Brookes’ concerted an offer of the lead to Mr.
Tierney.[274] Of this step Lord Sefton[275] and Lord Althorp[276] were,
I think, the chief promoters, the members of the House of Cavendish the
most earnest, and those of the House of Russell very willing and active
supporters.
After some hesitation (for it was hardly in his nature to take any step
without some previous hesitation or some subsequent misgivings) he
accepted it. His oratory, though of no elevated, commanding, or even
brilliant kind, was perhaps the most popular and the most agreeable,
and certainly by far the most original, then left in Parliament. His
long experience of the House, his conciliatory temper, and above all
his shrewdness, sagacity, and diligence seemed to fit him admirably for
the station he thus assumed. It was, however, obvious that the general
deference to his judgment and the confidence in his principles bore a
very unequal proportion to the affection, good will, and delight, with
which his conversation and speeches were regarded. Those who loved him
best foresaw too clearly that in the essential qualifications of decision
and judgment he might prove deficient, and those less aware than his
intimate friends of his inflexible integrity not unnaturally attributed
the low standard, at which he too frequently rated the public virtue of
other politicians, to some crying defect in his own, although the real
cause was the inordinate fear he felt of being outwitted and, above all,
laughed at for presumption or simplicity.[277]
In truth, his irresolution was fed, if not engendered, by that very
sense of humour which enabled him to discern so keenly and to expose so
admirably whatever was ridiculous in other public men. His pleasantry
and easy manners shed a charm over all intercourse with him, even on
the driest matters of business and detail. He meant to be, and he was,
courteous to all, and friendly and serviceable to his followers and
partisans. He had, moreover, other qualities, or rather an exemption from
other qualities, which seemed peculiarly adapted to win the affections
of independent men. Though not destitute of spirit, and though his
physical courage was redundant rather than deficient, he had perhaps
less pride and certainly far less vanity than any man of equal talents
and acquirements whom I ever had an opportunity of observing. I must
own, however, that in his capacity of leader of a party he was sometimes
too readily offended at insignificant deviations, and disproportionately
alarmed at the indiscretion of individuals. He was, in truth, always
striving to be more circumspect in conducting other men than is
compatible with preserving any authority over them at all; and yet by
a contradiction not uncommon in the caution which has its source in
timidity, he was occasionally so enamoured of some crotchet or refinement
of his own that he was hurried into courses hazardous and even rash.
Little incidents and shades of differences at meetings held during 1819
at Burlington House,[278] and attended by most of the Whigs, but not by
Mr. Lambton[279] (who had some private quarrel with Lord G. Cavendish),
disconcerted Mr. Tierney exceedingly. He was much keener in discerning
the existence and foreboding the consequences of accidental dissensions,
unavoidable in large bodies of men, than expert in concealing and healing
them; and the character of some members of his party, especially Mr.
Brougham, was sure to bring these disqualifications into action and
notice. They were, however, hardly perceptible to the public during the
first part of the Session of 1819.
Several brilliant debates, in which he and Sir James Mackintosh shone
greatly, and which were followed by successful divisions, though on
matters of small importance, seemed fully to justify the choice which
had fallen upon him and promised his leadership no little _éclat_. But
debates under his guidance were too much trials of strength, and too
little a manifestation of the conflicting principles of the parties
engaged. He always laboured more to obtain wavering votes than to enforce
the views or particular course of action recommended by his party. So
enamoured was he of such a line of policy that, in an evil hour, he
determined to bring the relative strength of Government and Ministry to
a direct issue, and on May 18, 1819, he moved a Committee on the state
of the nation—a motion equivalent to one for the dismissal of Ministry,
and in the then state of parties justly remarked by Lord Castlereagh to
convey two distinct propositions: the first, that the Ministry in office
had _not_, and the second, that the gentlemen in Opposition _had_ the
confidence of the House. To neither of these propositions was the House,
though far from satisfied with the state of public affairs, prepared to
assent; and when convinced that the last was virtually involved in the
first, did not hesitate to reject the motion by an overwhelming majority.
Mr. Tierney was much disconcerted at this result, and it was not, I
think, long ere he renounced the leadership which he had assumed.
The guidance of the party thus devolved to the guidance of three or four
men of weight (such as Lords Althorp and Tavistock) and others stimulated
by Brougham, or to that of chance itself. Parliament was prorogued in
July, 1819. During the recess which followed frequent meetings were held
in London and other populous towns. The avowed object was to petition
against grievances and for Parliamentary Reform, and the representations
of magistrates induced Lord Sidmouth, ever on the alert to flatter that
consequential class of personages, to press for a sudden meeting of
Parliament. His colleagues declined to adopt that inconvenient course.
He redoubled his activity in communicating with the busy magistracy and
in impressing on their minds the importance of vigilance against riot
and sedition. Hence, some from party spirit, and more from that pompous
bustle in which provincial authority delights to revel, fed him with idle
tales of plots and insurrections, and courted that official applause
which he seldom failed to administer.
Atkins, the Lord Mayor, a foolish and violent man, at the risk of
provoking a real riot, arrested a brawling parson of the name of Harrison
in the very act of talking nonsense to a multitude.[280] This silly zeal
was magnified as a feat of prodigious vigour and decision. Many a justice
of the quorum waxed emulous of the fame of a Lord Mayor, who, according
to his own version of the matter, modestly reported that he had defeated
a conspiracy “to burn the Metropolis and to murder the inhabitants.”
At Manchester the magistrates, instigated by one of the name of Fletcher,
resolved to eclipse the triumph of Smithfield and arrest Mr. Hunt
himself, the demagogue of the day, even before he had uttered a word. He
substituted for constables a body of Yeoman Cavalry. They were suddenly
let loose on a defenceless multitude of 4,000 men, women, and children
to execute the warrant.[281] The crowd, unarmed, had collected in a
square near St. Peter’s Church. They were hemmed in by the soldiery, and
on the slightest appearance of tumult would have been at the mercy of
a military, but irregular and somewhat exasperated, force. As it was,
excesses were committed and blood was shed, though more might well
have been apprehended. The carnage was probably exaggerated, and could
perhaps hardly warrant the designation, given of it to this day by the
people, of the “Massacre of Peterloo.” But it was an act of violence,
odious, illegal, revolting, unprovoked, and unnecessary. This may be
collected from a narrative in my possession, written by Mr. Stanley,[282]
afterwards Bishop of Norwich, who surveyed the whole scene from the
roof of the houses, and is much too conscientious a man to set down
aught in malice, though less willing than many of his cloth to extenuate
the excesses of authority. The intemperate eagerness, or, to use Lord
Grosvenor’s phrase, the breathless haste of the Home Office in thanking
the magistrates for shedding the blood of the people before it had
ascertained whether it was in observance or in breach of the law and the
nature of the force employed, riveted the recollection of this outrage
in the minds of the Manchester public. It rankled for many years. The
consequences were very sensibly felt at the time of the Reform Bill;
and the name of the “Massacre of Peterloo,” together with those of the
persons who were most forward in it, are not forgotten to this day.
The Parliament, however, as then constituted, had no sympathy with
the sufferers; and when convened in November passed several angry and
restrictive laws without repugnance and even without the formality of
inquiry. The Whigs in the Lords resisted these unconstitutional laws in
speeches and protests (several of which I wrote); but Lord Wellesley,
who on recent occasions had taken a popular view of all such questions,
somewhat abruptly reverted to his old anti-Jacobin courses, and Lord
Grenville vindicated the exercise of authority against democratic and
tumultuous agitation with an earnestness and gravity which too plainly
indicated an entire separation from the party with whom he had acted
for fifteen years. His speech was elaborate and able—one of his best:
and among the last he ever delivered. He touched with feeling on the
differences subsisting between him and the reforming Whigs, and rescued
himself with great spirit and close logic from all imputation of
inconsistency, acknowledging and lamenting that he foresaw that practices
would be resorted to and defended by the eager friends of liberty, to
which he could never reconcile himself as compatible either with the
institutions of the country or the preservation of necessary authority.
It was, in short, clear that there subsisted a fundamental difference
of principle between the Fox and Grenville schools of politics, and the
course of events had brought into action these conflicting opinions.
This was virtually the close of Lord Grenville’s public life, though
he lived many years. It was painful that so honourable a career should
end by a separation from many connected with and attached to him. The
termination, however, like the course of it, was manly and direct. There
was nothing sordid, nothing personal, nothing even inconsistent in it
on either side. I, for one, feel that among the rare gratifications of
a public life the reflection of having known and acted with such a man
as Lord Grenville is not the least. Soon after a reluctant attendance
on Queen Caroline’s Bill and a speech upon it that added little to his
reputation as an orator, logician, or judge, his health declined; he
lived chiefly in the country, and devoted himself almost exclusively
to literature, philosophy, and gardening. I had the satisfaction of
occasional correspondence with him on these topics, and also of giving
his proxy for the repeal of the Corporation and Test Acts in 1828. He
died in 1833.[283]
Non potui ejus mortem non dolere. Hominem enim, castum,
integrum, et gravem cognovi.
Mr. Fox gave me his true character in one word, in 1805, when he said, “I
like Lord Grenville very much indeed. He is a _direct_ man.”