Lost Classic- William Pitt the Younger’s last speech
There are several versions of William Pitt the Younger’s final words as he lay dying at Bowling Green House on Putney Heath in 1806. “Bring me another of Bellamy’s pies” is one; “My country! O how I leave my country!” is another.
We will never know with certainty what this fiercely dedicated and politically obsessed patriot said as he left the loud world of the living and entered the endless silence of the dead. However, apocryphally imparted last words are less important than this gifted orator’s greatest speech. Sadly, it is yet to receive its due recognition from the general public as one of the best in British history.
Pitt was the younger son of William Pitt the Elder who in William Hague’s words was “the Churchill of his day.” He attended Cambridge aged 14 and entered parliament at 21 before being offered the Exchequer at 23 and accepting the Premiership at 24. By 25, Pitt was the supreme statesmen of a nation that ruled a vast and varied empire. He had been brought up by his father to occupy this role and to think up long-term policies which would confirm the continual prosperity of his country. He advocated the abolition of slavery and oversaw the conversion of currency from gold to paper. He modernised the position of Prime Minister, is our longest serving wartime leader and lived longer in 10 Downing Street than any other occupant. And to put his youth into context, he was younger when he died in office than every Prime Minister after him when they entered office, except for Tony Blair and David Cameron.
His singlemindedness and pious love of Britain inspired a whole generation of leaders, prompting a companion to comment “he is somewhere between man and the angels.” When told he would likely perish if he continued to work as Prime Minister, Pitt is reported to have replied: “I would rather die in my post than abandon it.” This superhuman commitment to the task of administrating an empire and fighting a world war surely mocks the modern politician’s numerous complaints about the hardships of political life.
Sometimes physically attacked and often personally harangued, he pushed forward undisturbed. Goaded by the persuasive genius of his adversaries, he was often obliged to speak in the Commons when he ought to have been in bed or in hospital. Never buckling under the innumerable pressures he privately bore, in an age of podgy foppishness, he became the symbol of fortitude. Unlike most of his contemporaries, he had no interest in enriching himself or seeking social significance through the prominence of his role. He served only for the safety and success of his country and could conceive of no better way to spend his brief time on earth than by investing his abilities into programmes that ensured the protection of his people.
The many oratorical duals he survived should place him in our eyes as high, if not higher, than Churchill. He was not only a master of the labyrinthine syntax of Cicero and the unassuming logical case-making of Demosthenes, he was also a marvellous choreographer. On the occasion when the House was debating the question of abolition throughout the night, Pitt timed the rising of the sun and its illumination of the smutty window hanging high above him to visually illustrate his metaphor of a new dawn in Africa.
Although he was famed for his clear, graceful and fact-brocaded orations, his final performance was extremely short. Uttered in the iridescent atmosphere of a historic victory, it was a simple feat of chiasmus and personal humility. Pitt had commissioned the naval talents of Admiral Nelson to block and destroy an enemy fleet which would assist Napoleon with an invasion of Britain. At Trafalgar, Nelson signalled the immortal message of: England expects that every man will do his duty. He went on to dutifully die doing what Pitt had ordered him to do. When Pitt was woken in Downing Street during the early hours of 7th November, he endured the emotional confusion of being informed that his nation was saved, but his champion was slain. The accompanying sadness to this bit of brilliant news perhaps compelled him to relinquish any claim on the glorious events that had transpired. At the Lord Mayor’s banquet, he was toasted as the ‘saviour of Europe’. An ill and pale Pitt stood up and said these three lines which were to be his last in public:
“I return you many thanks for the honour you have done me; but Europe is not to be saved by any single man. England has saved herself by her exertions, and will, as I trust, save Europe by her example.”
Wellington, who was in attendance, said it was “one of the best and neatest speeches I ever heard.” Lord Curzon when giving the Rede Lecture in 1913 said it should rank with Lincoln’s Gettysburg address and second inaugural as one of the three greatest speeches ever given, but few have echoed this idea.
The absence of pride in a moment of triumph is rare in and out of politics. It is usually the mark of a person who understands the ephemeral nature of victory and who cautions their excitements with a sceptical foresight. Churchill’s “We shall fight them on the beaches”, JFK’s “Ask not what your country can do for you,” Martin Luther King’s “I had a dream” are peaks of 20th century oratory which have seamlessly passed into popular culture. Few political citations from the 19th century have persisted into the collective conscience of our country, but if one piece was to be picked to best reveal the personality and virtue of Britain’s people, it ought to be Pitt’s last remarks. They advertise the emotional wisdom and intellectual precision of a true leader and demonstrate how in a moment of glory, the good are often quiet.