Then what is a [◊] Whig? A dog full of knavery,
A raſcal, a ſcoundrel impatient of ſlavery, [ 15 ]
A malignant, a thief;—then tell me if Whig
Be any more better than gruntledum pig?
- [*] The perſon here deſigned is allowed by the courteſy of the times to poſſeſs a nervous and elegant ſtile; but ſo unhappy is the writer of this note, that he can by no means concur in the general praiſe. He has a notion of Saxon ſimplicity, from which all departure, not enforced by neceſſity, and regulated by taſte, aſſimilating, as much as may be, foreign words to the genius of the Saxon tongue, is to him intolerable. But the writer here ſpoken of was wholly deficient in taſte, and appears to refer his Engliſh to ſome foreign ſtandard chanting forth polyſyllables, and tiring the ear with dull returns of the ſame cadences, for ever advancing like a poſt horſe, two up and two down, and incapable of changing his pace, without throwing both himſelf and his rider in the dirt. But hack writers, like hack horſes, find it for their eaſe to practiſe an uniform rate.
- [†] There is, ſays a remarker on the life of Milton, a high degree of prepollent probability that the letter in the Gentleman’s Magazine for the month of Auguſt 1747, page 363 and 364, ſigned William Lauder, came from the amicable hand of the writer of that life. I do not, however, believe that the writer of Milton’s life was in the ſecret of Lauder’s forgeries, the fact itſelf being of ſo extraordinary a nature, that it is not probable that any two perſons, ſeparately capable of committing it, ſhould ſo fortuitouſly meet together; yet ſuch was his malevolence towards Milton, that we muſt admit it to have greatly clouded his underſtanding. He undoubtedly wrote the preface and the poſtſcript to Lauder’s publication: in alluſion to which, Doctor Douglas ſays, that ’tis hoped, nay ’tis expected, that the the elegant and nervous writer, whoſe judicious ſentiments and inimitable ſtyle point out author of Lauder’s preface and poſtſcript, will no longer allow one to plume himſelf with his feathers, who appears ſo little to have deſerved his aſſiſtance. Lauder confeſſes his guilt in a letter to Doctor Douglas, and takes all the obloquy on himſelf; but in a ſubſequent letter he declares, that the penitential one was written for him by that very gentleman, who has ſince written the life of Milton, and makes ſome complaints of a breach of friendſhip, in which he had placed the moſt implicit and unlimited confidence; but as he never charged, that I know of, the writer of Milton’s life with any participation in the forgery, we impute to him nothing but a ſtrange malignity which darkened his underſtanding. It muſt be owned, however, that he cut off the wreck of Lauder with great management, as well as competent ſucceſs. I remember that he boaſts in his life of Milton of his having written a prologue to the Comus of Milton, for the benefit of one of his grand daughters. This, I ſuppoſe, he would paſs for his benevolence; but he muſt excuſe me; I am not ſo much the dupe of charity as to believe, that he who ſo brutally calumniates Milton, his father, mother, uncles, wives, and children, and all unfortunate ſouls that trace him in his line, would be moved by any charitable diſpoſition towards any deſcendant of Milton’s, as being ſuch. The fact, I believe, is, that, finding Milton reduced by the labours of his friend Lauder to a level with his wiſhes, he practiſed, in concurrence with Mr. Lauder, one further act of malice, and endeavoured to fix an obligation on Milton in the perſon of his granddaughter, conferred by his moſt inveterate foes as the effect of ſatiated vengeance, converted into mingled pity and contempt. If there is any harſhneſs in this note, let it be remembered, that it ſpeaks of a man who, in the inſtance mentioned, let looſe the moſt outrageous malignity againſt one, who, whatever political errors he might have imbibed in common with a great majority of the nation, was, however, as a private man, of ſo exemplary a virtue, as to do the higheſt honour to literary purſuit, and whoſe genius, as a poet, conferred celebrity on the nation itſelf, and in whoſe protection therefore we ought to have taken a greater ſhare.
- [‡] The hiſtory of this knocking is curious; it forms ſuch a drama of comedy, tragedy, and farce, from its firſt commencement in Cock Lane, paſſing through the ſolemn vaults of Clerkenwell, and then to Weſtminſter Hall, as, I believe, never was exhibited in any other country; a drama wherein childiſhneſs and age, gravity, dignities, folly, fraud, ſuperſtition, and credulity, were all largely and confuſedly thrown in to thicken the plot. That the perſon here deſignated ſhould carry out of this ſcene any reſpectability of character, is a proof that either he muſt have poſſeſſed great intrinſic worth, who could bear ſuch large deductions, or that public opinion has ceaſed to be the teſt of merit, if any baſe metal can in this manner paſs current for gold.
- [§] Our biographer ſhould have told us alſo, that once he joined the train of fancy, and paſſing the limits of fact, entered by the Shakeſpearean gate into fairy land. But in an evil hour, “No favouring Sybil marked the devious way.” Never was man or pig ſo aſtounded! and no wonder. He had ſtumbled unaccountably on the creations of ſenſibility, and found no correſponding emotions within; yet, unconſcious of defect, he pretended a knowledge of the country, and even offered himſelf as an unerring guide; but not long; for, tired with the maze, he gave way, at length, to new adventurers, and fled as another Gulliver out of Lilliput, where he had only encumbered the land.
- [◊] “No man, however, was more jealouſly attached to his party; he not only loved a man the better, if he hated a Whig. Dear Bathurſt, ſaid he to me one day, was a man to my very heart’s content; he hated a fool, and he hated a rogue, and he hated a Whig; he was a very good hater.”—Piozzi’s Memoirs, p. 83.
- “Pulteney was as paltry a fellow as could be. He was a Whig, who pretended to be honeſt; and you know it is ridiculous for a Whig to pretend to be honeſt.” Boſwell’s Journal, p. 424.
- Talking of Granger—“The dog is a Whig: I do not like much to ſee a Whig in any dreſs; but I hate to ſee a Whig in a parſon’s gown.”—Ibid. p. 312.
There needed no more; a penſion was immediately hung about his neck, and the letters L. L. D. ſoon afterwards impreſſed on his rump [*]. And now who but our Pig? lying in the ſun, cheek by jowl, by the great miniſterial Hog, routing in the political ſoil, and throwing up daily the moſt delicious [ 16 ] pig-nuts with his ſnout; nor did theſe diſcoveries reſt wholly in himſelf; for the great Hog would ſometimes let fall, from behind, certain rich, but often crude and ill-digeſted, materials, which were taken up in the Weſtphalian mode by our Pig, and delivered again better concocted to the many-headed beaſt: and hence we were taught, that Taxation was no Tyranny, and that a good American war was a very commodious and ſalutary thing. Great applauſe enſued, but not unattended with envy, there being at the time many ſnarlers who have ſaid, and now ſay, that it were better if our Pig had been, before this period, well ſouſed in the pickling tub, and that even the great miniſterial Hog himſelf had been hung up for bacon. I decide nothing on theſe brawls; yet, having reſpect to a certain ſuppoſed dignity in our Pig, it may, perhaps, excite ſome wonder, that he, whoſe politics were of no older a date than his penſion, and who had hitherto never routed out of the moral track, ſhould all at once lend himſelf out in this manner, and make his conſcience reſponſible for meaſures, of the principles or effects of which he muſt have been ſo incompetent a judge. But I anſwer in few words, that, like all other [ 17 ] politicians, he had his propenſities; that it was, perhaps, the nature of the animal, and that mingling his humours and his reaſon together, there might have been a competent ſincerity in the caſe. But what ſhall we ſay to the indecency of his turning up the graves of Pope and [†] Swift, (for I ſpeak not now of Milton) and goring them, Tories as they were, with ſo malicious a tooth? I anſwer, firſt, that they were not Tories. Pope placed his glory in moderation; and Swift was the renegade of one party, without being the convert of the other. But it was not Whig or Tory, I believe, which now moved our Pig: there are other inſtinctive enmities in the world. Theſe men of real genius were ſatiriſts by profeſſion, and the natural enemies of Pigſ—“The fewer ſtill I name,” ſays Pope, “I hurt the more.”—“Bond is but one, but Balaam is a ſcore;” and again, “An hundred ſmart in Timon and in Balaam.” And I believe that our Pig ſmarted in Bentley, Tibbald, and poſſibly in many others; the ſtorm [ 18 ] had but juſt patted before him, and he heard the arrowy ſhower ſtill rattle in his ear, and was conſcious, perhaps, that had he come forth a day ſooner, he would have been placed in a diſtinguiſhed, but, to him, a very unpleaſant, niche in the Dunciad of Pope,
“Sacred to ridicule his whole life long,
“And the ſad burden of ſome merry ſong.”
- [*] Our author daſhes away from thing to thing with very little method or order. He might, however, have touched on the occupation of a ſchoolmaſter, ſo honourable for a pig; in proof of which, we could have furniſhed him with the following document:
- “At Edial, near Litchfield, in Staffordſhire, young gentlemen are boarded and taught the Latin and Greek languages by Samuel Johnſon.”
- ADVERTISEMENT IN THE GENT. MAG. 1736, p. 428.
- [†] “He ſeemed to me to have an unaccountable prejudice againſt Swift; for I once took the liberty to aſk him, if Swift had perſonally offended him; and he told me, he had not.”—Boſwell’s Tour, p. 38.
Where he inſults therefore the mighty dead, his rage is at leaſt natural; and when, to wound Pope, he ſuborns the tongue of a [*] kitchen wench, he preſerves, however, a nice proportion between his end and his means, doing, with very ſingular propriety, the baſeſt thing in, what muſt be allowed to be, the loweſt way. But we abſtain, we affect not gravity, we even forget his almoſt felonious attack upon Milton, and proceed. We have already noted the facility with which [ 19 ] our learned Pig could ſay Ay. It was a great accompliſhment; but he had alſo his defects. [†] No art, no inſtruction could ever bring him to make a tolerable bow, or indeed to practice any civil grimace whatever; and his higheſt approach, in this way, towards humanity, never went farther than to entitle him, from the moſt exquiſite judge, to the character of a very reſpectable Hottentot: and hence he became at laſt to be conſidered as a very great [‡] Bore; under [ 20 ] which diſgrace he retired to a brewery in the Borough.—Happy retirement! for here he was fed with the freſheſt grains by the fair hand of a lady, who condeſcended to become the prieſteſs of our Pig; a lady who had acquired the Greek language without loſing her own, and whoſe manners and latinity were both equally pure. How great therefore muſt have been his grief, when he afterwards ſaw his fair provider melt away into the arms of a ſoft, but doubtleſs ſinewy Signor, and bathe herſelf, as it is yet her fortune to do, in the voluptuous warmths of Italy. But her’s, however be the praiſe, that, compoſed of gentle paſſions, ſhe conſcientiouſly ſacrificed, at thirty-eight, fortune, freedom, and England, only to legalize her delights. Never in any future period may ſhe be repentant of her choice, but always find in the joys of [ 21 ] harmony a compenſation for the decays of love. From the fair hand of this lady our Pig was not only fed with the fineſt grains, but with the choiceſt green peas alſo, the earlieſt of the year—delicious food, as he himſelf confeſſes—for a [§] Pig. By her too was prepared for him the moſt inviting draff, which he ſwilled up at all hours with huge avidity and delight. But the lady had her humours; ſhe grew tired of one thing, and fond of another; ſhe ſought, upon preſſing inducements, the great rendezvous of Bath; and ſo the joys of the brewery had an end. Many were of opinion, (for who can pleaſe all,) that a certain diſtillery in the neighbourhood would have been a more apt and proper retreat for our Pig;—but there were difficulties; I enter not into domeſtic affairs; but whether there was any whiggiſm, or rivalſhip, or jealouſy, or what elſe in the caſe, I know not; but certain it [ 22 ] is, that Sir Joſeph and he could never, as they ought, well pig together. During the happy period above mentioned, it came into the fancy of our Pig to journey into Scotland in the character of a travelling bear, with a ragged ſtaff in his paws, and a [◊] monkey on his back. When he firſt obtained a penſion, he had been very affectionately conſidered by the people of that country, and in a manner naturalized, and become one of them; but he diſcovered ſoon afterwards, and more particularly on this occaſion, ſo much of the badger in his diſpoſition, that they found great reaſon to complain of the ſtrength and harſhneſs of his jaw. On his return he reſorted again to his beloved brewery, as yet profuſe of grains and draff, where he grunted forth, as was his cuſtom, many ſtrange and ſingular things, faithfully now on record, pretending alſo to cure certain mental diſeaſes by the medicinal qualities of his tongue; but its extreme roughneſs the ſenſibility of his patients could not bear. Enough has been ſaid; the reſt ſhall [ 23 ] be left to Bozzy. Yet we will add, that with all his peculiarities, he had virtues and merits enough to make us heartily wiſh he were ſtill in being:—But, alas, it is paſt, and he is now cutting up into junks, to be ſold pro bono publico at nine different ſhops in retail.