Whatever had been Lord Chatham’s views in going to Court, it appeared that now, at least, his part was taken. A reconciliation was made between him and Mr. Grenville, which, though never cordial, served at least to alarm the Bedfords, who, according to their laudable practice, made immediate overtures to the three brothers,[240] offering to be content to save Lord Gower, Rigby, and one or two more of their friends at most; in which number they were careful _not_ to stipulate for their ally, the Duke of Grafton. These overtures, though renewed at different times, were rejected. As if to condemn themselves more, they published a severe pamphlet against the political conduct of Lord Chatham. Wiltshire and Worcestershire then agreed on a petition, and one from Surrey was presented. But the capital stroke was struck by the electors of Westminster, who petitioned the king _to dissolve the Parliament_,--a step not only absurd, but of most dangerous precedent. To require him to dissolve an assembly so obsequious, and of whom they complained for humouring his vengeance, was on the face of it ridiculous and void of all probability of success. A refusal, indeed, they might wish to receive, as it would but inflame their grievance: but on pretence of violated liberty to seek for redress from the Throne, the aggressor against the bulwark of liberty, however then betrayed to the Crown, was as noxious a measure as could have been devised. What King but might obtain some servile addresses against the most incorruptible House of Commons? Was prerogative the champion to resort to in defence of injured freedom? The invitation sent to the Danes by our short-sighted and ignorant ancestors, and the expedient of calling over the heir of the Crown of France by the barons in the reign of King John, were scarce more big with folly and indiscretion. What could triumphant rebellion have demanded more of a King than to dissolve one Parliament and expose himself to a new election amidst enraged subjects? It was the act of a rash multitude--yet did not want abettors, who ought to have acted on sounder and soberer principles. Was this, alas! a moment to fill the nation with tumult and disorder? Was the constitution so gone (and nobody thinks worse than I do of the provocation given by the Court in the case of Lutterell) that anarchy was the sole engine left that could restore it? Could Lord Chatham, or Lord Temple, or Grenville (of whom the former had lost their popularity, and the latter never had any) hope to “Ride in the whirlwind, and direct the storm?”