he ministers. The ministers looked at
each other and knew not what to say. In the midst of the confusion, Lord
Chatham proclaimed himself gouty, and retired to Bath. It was announced,
after some time, that he was better, that he would shortly return, that
he would soon put everything in order. A day was fixed for his arrival
in London. But when he reached the Castle Inn at Marlborough, he
stopped, shut himself up in his room, and remained there some weeks.
Everybody who travelled that road was amazed by the number of his
attendants. Footmen and grooms, dressed in his family livery, filled the
whole inn, though one of the largest in England, and swarmed in the
streets of the little town. The truth was that the invalid had insisted
that, during his stay, all the waiters and stable-boys of the Castle
should wear his livery.

His colleagues were in despair. The Duke of Grafton proposed to go down
to Marlborough in order to consult the oracle. But he was informed that
Lord Chatham must decline all conversation on business. In the
meantime, all the parties which were out of office, Bedfords,
Grenvilles, and Rockinghams, joined to oppose the distracted government
on the vote for the land tax. They were reinforced by almost all the
county members, and had a considerable majority. This was the first time
that a ministry had been beaten on an important division in the House of
Commons since the fall of Sir Robert Walpole. The administration, thus
furiously assailed from without, was torn by internal dissensions. It
had been formed on no principle whatever. From the very first, nothing
but Chatham's authority had prevented the hostile contingents which made
up his ranks from going to blows with each other. That authority was now
withdrawn, and everything was in commotion. Conway, a brave soldier, but
in civil affairs the most timid and irresolute of men, afraid of
disobliging the King, afraid of being abused in the newspapers, afraid
of being thought factious if he went out, afraid of being thought
interested if he stayed in, afraid of everything, and afraid of being
known to be afraid of anything, was beaten backwards and forwards like a
shuttlecock between Horace Walpole, who wished to make him prime
minister, and Lord John Cavendish, who wished to draw him into
opposition. Charles Townshend, a man of splendid eloquence, of lax
principles, and of boundless vanity and presumption, would submit to no
control. The full extent of hi