Meanwhile the Parliament met.  The ministers, more hated by the people than ever, were secure of a majority, and they had also reason to hope that they would have the advantage in the debates as well as in the divisions; for Pitt was confined to his chamber by a severe attack of gout.  His friends moved to defer the consideration of the treaty till he should be able to attend:  but the motion was rejected.  The great day arrived.  The discussion had lasted some time, when a loud huzza was heard in Palace Yard.  The noise came nearer and nearer, up the stairs, through the lobby.  The door opened, and from the midst of a shouting multitude came forth Pitt, borne in the arms of his attendants.  His face was thin and ghastly, his limbs swathed in flannel, his crutch in his hand.  The bearers set him down within the bar.  His friends instantly surrounded him, and with their help he crawled to his seat near the table.  In this condition he spoke three hours and a half against the peace.  During that time he was repeatedly forced to sit down and to use cordials.  It may well be supposed that his voice was faint, that his action was languid, and that his speech, though occasionally brilliant and impressive, was feeble when compared with his best oratorical performances.  But those who remembered what he had done, and who saw what he suffered, listened to him with emotions stronger than any that mere eloquence can produce.  He was unable to stay for the division, and was carried away from the House amidst shouts as loud as those which had announced his arrival.

A large majority approved the peace.  The exultation of the Court was boundless.  “Now,” exclaimed the Princess Mother, “my son is really King.”  The young sovereign spoke of himself as freed from the bondage in which his grandfather had been held.  On one point, it was announced, his mind was unalterably made up.  Under no circumstances whatever should those Whig grandees, who had enslaved his predecessors and endeavoured to enslave himself, be restored to power.

This vaunting was premature.  The real strength of the favourite was by no means proportioned to the number of votes which he had, on one particular division, been able to command.  He was soon again in difficulties.  The most important part of his budget was a tax on cider.  This measure was opposed, not only by those who were generally hostile to his administration, but also by many of his supporters.  The name of excise had always been hateful to the Tories.  One of the chief crimes of Walpole in their eyes, had been his partiality for this mode of raising money.  The Tory Johnson had in his Dictionary given so scurrilous a definition of the word Excise, that the Commissioners of Excise had seriously thought of prosecuting him.  The counties which the new impost particularly affected had always been Tory counties.  It was the boast of John Philips, the poet of the English vintage, that the Cider-land had ever been faithful to the throne,