s parts, of his ambition, and of his
arrogance, had not yet been made manifest; for he had always quailed
before the genius and the lofty character of Pitt. But now that Pitt had
quitted the House of Commons, and seemed to have abdicated the part of
chief minister, Townshend broke loose from all restraint.

While things were in this state, Chatham at length returned to London.
He might as well have remained at Marlborough. He would see nobody. He
would give no opinion on any public matter. The Duke of Grafton begged
piteously for an interview, for an hour, for half an hour, for five
minutes. The answer was, that it was impossible. The King himself
repeatedly condescended to expostulate and implore. "Your duty," he
wrote, "your own honor, require you to make an effort." The answers to
these appeals were commonly written in Lady Chatham's hand, from her
lord's dictation; for he had not energy even to use a pen. He flings
himself at the King's feet. He is penetrated by the royal goodness, so
signally shown to the most unhappy of men. He implores a little more
indulgence. He cannot as yet transact business. He cannot see his
colleagues. Least of all can he bear the excitement of an interview with
majesty.

Some were half inclined to suspect that he was, to use a military
phrase, malingering. He had made, they said, a great blunder, and had
found it out. His immense popularity, his high reputation for
statesmanship, were gone forever. Intoxicated by pride, he had
undertaken a task beyond his abilities. He now saw nothing before him
but distresses and humiliations; and he had therefore simulated illness,
in order to escape from vexations which he had not fortitude to meet.
This suspicion, though it derived some color from that weakness which
was the most striking blemish of his character, was certainly unfounded.
His mind, before he became first minister, had been, as we have said, in
an unsound state; and physical and moral causes now concurred to make
the derangement of his faculties complete. The gout, which had been the
torment of his whole life, had been suppressed by strong remedies. For
the first time since he was a boy at Oxford, he had passed several
months without a twinge. But his hand and foot had been relieved at the
expense of his nerves. He became melancholy, fanciful, irritable. The
embarrassing state of public affairs, the grave responsibility which lay
on him, the consciousness of his errors, the disputes o