Every possible (and impossible) sin was charged upon Sacheverel for this sermon, especially by the notorious bookseller and pamphleteer, John Dunton. This worthy ally of Hanover, in his ‘Bungay, or the false brother proved his own executioner,’ which was circulating in London, immediately after the sermon of January 20th, roundly accused Sacheverel of being ‘a man of the bottle that can sit up whole nights drinking until High Church is drunk down, and laid low or flat under the table, as you were at Sir J. N——rs in Oxfordshire, which occasioned that sarcasm, There lies the pillar of our Church.’ Sacheverel was accused of being guilty of the most profligate gallantry. His own clerk, it was said, had to rouse him up from cards, on a Sunday, when service time was at hand! and as for blasphemy, Sacheverel, it was affirmed, could never make reference to Dissenters without damning them for Hanoverians, and consigning them to their master, the Devil! The list of crimes would have been incomplete if it had not closed with the assertion that Sacheverel was at heart really an Atheist!
Tavern Whigs waxed religiously wrathful against Sacheverel. One Dunne, in a Southwark tavern, after roaring over his drink against the Tory parson, reeled forth on a dark and stormy night, and happened to come on a funeral by torch-light, on its way to St. Saviour’s. A clergyman walked with it, as was then the custom. ‘D—— me!’ exclaimed Dunne, ‘here’s the Doctor of Divinity! I’ll have a bout with him.’ The clergyman was not Dr. Sacheverel, but his curate, Mr. Pocock. It was all one to Dunne, who assaulted the curate, pulled off his hat, tore off his peruke, and finally knocked him down. Dunne was conveyed away by the watch. The Tory ‘Post Boy’ was sarcastic on the incident, ‘The clergy,’ it said, ‘within the bills of mortality, who are about six feet high and wear black wigs, are desired to meet at Child’s coffee-house, St. Paul’s Churchyard, next Thursday, in order to consider proper methods to distinguish themselves from Dr. Sacheverel, that they may not be murthered by way of proxy instead of the said Doctor.’ The other side remarked, that there would be no safety for tall men with flaxen wigs till Sacheverel was hanged out of the way.
DANGER IN THE DISTANCE.
On similar occasions in London there were similar manifestations in an opposite sense. ‘On the eve of the Pretender’s birthday (10th of June), they make great boasts of what they will do to-morrow,’ said the Whig papers, ‘which, they say, is the anniversary of his birth. But it is believed that the High Church wardens, who pretend a right to the bells, will not be very fond of hanging in the ropes. A serenade of warming pans will be more suitable for the occasion, and brickbats may serve instead of clappers for a brickmaking brat.’
FLIGHT OF BOLINGBROKE.
In March, London had been called from personal to national considerations. There was a phrase in the king’s speech, on opening Parliament in this month, which sounded like a trumpet-call to battle. ‘The Pretender,’ said the Prince who had leapt into his place, ‘who still resides in Lorraine, threatens to disturb us, and boasts of the assistance he still expects here, to repair his former disappointments.’ The national prosperity was said to be obstructed by his pretensions and intrigues. In reply to this, the faithful Parliament expressed all becoming indignation; and Jacobites who felt unsafe in London began to take measures for securing a refuge. On the 18th of March, or as some reports say, the 5th of April, a nobleman seemed to court notice at Drury Lane Theatre. He was now with one friend, now with another, among the audience. He was quite as much among the actors, having a word with Booth (who had experienced his liberality on the night that ‘Cato’ was first played) anon, gossiping smartly with Wilks, and exchanging merry passages of speech with delicious Mrs. Oldfield. All who saw him felt persuaded that the Viscount Bolingbroke had reason to be above all fear, or he would not have been there, and in such bright humour, too. Bolingbroke ordered a play for the next night, left the house, and half an hour after, having darkened his eyebrows, clapped on a black wig, and otherwise disguised himself, was posting down to Dover under the name of La Vigne, without a servant, but having a Frenchman with him who acted as courier. The fugitive reached Dover at six in the morning, but he was detained by tempestuous weather till two, when, despite the gale, the wind being fair, the master of a Dover hoy agreed to carry him over to Calais, where Bolingbroke landed at six in the evening. An hour later, he was laughing over the adventure with the governor of the town, who had invited him to dinner. At the same hour the next night, all London was in a ferment with the news of this flight of Bolingbroke. The Privy Council was immediately summoned. They were alarmed, but powerless; and finding themselves helpless, they had nothing better to do than to commit to Newgate the honest man who had brought the intelligence to London!
BOLINGBROKE PAMPHLETS.
Bolingbroke’s enemies and friends were alike busy, the first to injure, the latter to defend him. His foes issued, at the price of 4d., ‘A merry letter from Lord Bol——ke to a certain favourite mistress near Bloomsbury Square.’ It was ‘printed and sold by the pamphlet sellers of London and Westminster.’ It was in doggrel rhyme, not witty but, emphatically, ‘beastly.’ Towards the conclusion, the following mischievous lines occur, foreshadowing invasion and his own return:—
In the meantime, I hope
The mist will clear up,