THE great and learned Pig, of which it is our hap to ?peak, was produced in a ?ty belonging to an old Tory, [6] book?eller, in † Moorfields. At that time Moorfields was di?tingui?hed by rails which ‡ fluttered with party writings and libels of every ?ort; and it is remarkable that his mother, during her pregnancy, tore down from tho?e rails, and fairly devoured one whole volume of Filmer and all Sacheverell’s ?ermons at a meal; after which ?he was ob?erved to grunt more and louder, and to lie longer in the ?un, and deeper in the mire, than it had before been her cu?tom to do. She was delivered of our Pig on the morning of the tenth of June. He was ?trong and bony, but of an inelegant form, and betrayed a very uncommon roughne?s in his ?queak; and it was ?oon after remarked by the neighbours, that his [7] trottings after his mother were made in § zig-zags, and not in ?traight lines as is u?ual with other pigs. After his mother, however, he re?olutely trotted, and one morning, as ill fortune would have it, into a garden which had belonged to the great Milton, and was now in the po??e??ion of one of his daughters. Here he fed voraciou?ly upon white ro?es, whil?t his lady mother was bu?ily employed in rooting up all the red ones. He was in this place ?eized by the owner, and ?o ?everely whipped, that he thought no other than that ?he was whipping him to death in preparation for a luxurious meal. Of this whipping he retained through life the highe?t re?entment, and bore ever after the mo?t inveterate hatred of the whole Miltonic line. On the fifth of November following he was taken up, without any warrant, by the rabble, for the u?es of a Whig fea?t, and was very near being roa?ted at the ?ame fire with the Pope, the Devil, and the Pretender; but this [8] being di?covered to be ?omething mea?ly, he was turned loo?e to be cured, as they deridingly ?aid, by the ? royal touch. Of this event he retained the ?tronge?t ?en?ibility, and con?idered ever after his fellow ?ufferers, the Pope and the Pretender, with great complacence, if not affection; but as to the other party, though expo?ed to the ?ame di?honours, there was ?omething in his horns and his tail which he could never be brought [9] to endure. The touch already mentioned, though profanely ?neered at by the Whig rabble, was ?oon afterwards in good earne?t applied; but ?o great an obliquity of head had by this time taken place, that it could never be perfectly re?tored. Upon this memorable occa?ion there was placed about his neck a ribband of true blue, to which hung a ?ilver coin, di?playing royal lineaments of the Stuart line, making ?o ?trong an impre??ion on his young fancy, that for that line he ever after retained the mo?t # pa??ionate regard. Thus decorated, he con?idered him?elf, and was con?idered by others, as a kind of ? Tantony, or St. Anthony’s Pig, belonging to the Crown. Not long after this period he was [10] heard one morning as he lay in the ?un to grunt forth, portentou?ly the following rhymes:

• * “He was not at all offended, when, comparing all our acquaintance to ?ome animal or other, we pitched upon the elephant for his re?emblance, adding, that the probo?cis of that creature was like his mind mo?t exactly, ?trong to buffet even the tyger, and pliable to pick up even the pin.”—Piozzi, p. 205.—N.B. For elephant our author probably read pig.

• † We have ?ought for information concerning this fact, that the gentleman de?ignated in the text was born in Moorfields, or that his father was a book?eller there, which, however, we confe?s to have heard, but when or where we can by no means remember.

• ‡

  Cloath ?pice, line trunks, or flutt’ring in a row,

  Befringe the rails of Bedlam or Soho.

  POPE’S IM. OF HORACE, Ep. I. B. 2.

• § “When in company where he was not free, or when engaged earne?tly in conver?ation, he never gave way to ?uch habits, which proves that they were not involuntary.” I ?till, however, think, that the?e ge?tures were involuntary; for ?urely had not that been the ca?e, he would have re?trained them in the public ?treets.—Bo?well’s Tour, p. 9.

• ? The pretence of a miraculous power in the cure of the evil was the mo?t extraordinary ?train of that King-craft of which James the Fir?t ?o loudly boa?ted. No manly man, under the circum?tances of the ca?e, would have ?et up this pretence, or have expected any effect from it but that of public deri?ion and contempt; but weak and credulous men take, perhaps, the be?t mea?ure of human weakne?s and credulity, and ?o deep did this fraud ?trike its roots, that, authenticated as it was by the clergy, and annually certified by the ?urgeons and phy?icians of the royal hou?ehold, it ?urvived the civil war, was re?tored with Charles the Second, extended beyond the revolution, and was only extingui?hed by the act of ?ettlement, which, taking the principles of the Briti?h government out of the clouds, placed them on the firm ba?is of the earth. The preten?ions of Alexander were of a bolder and more rational ?ort, and held to be ?o important, that his ?ucce??ors, who had no kindred intere?t in the horns of Ammon, yet mingled them in their crowns and tiaras, till at la?t the Roman Titans tumbled from their ?eats one after another the?e fictitious gods. The mo?t deceitful glimmer of divine claim ?eems to have had more influence on the mind of the per?on who ?eems to have been de?ignated in the text, than the mo?t ?olid principles of political right.

• # “I mentioned Lord Hailes as a man of anecdote—He was not plea?ed with him for publi?hing only ?uch memorials as were unfavourable for the Stuart family.”—Bo?well’s Tour, p. 312.

• ? Tantony pigs were pigs who belonged formerly to the Convent of St. Anthony in the city. Collars were placed about their necks, in?cribed St. Anthony. They fed all over the town, and out of re?pect to the fathers of that convent, it was u?ual for the pa??engers to give them bi?cuits, and other things carried for that purpo?e in their pockets. The pigs of cour?e followed the pa??engers in this expectation; and hence came the expre??ion of one per?on’s following another like a Tantony pig.

This being publicly known, the neighbours now put on him a human coat, in which condition he appeared as if the Hog in armour had de?cended from his ?ign-po?t to mingle in ?ociety, and conver?e with man. Nor did they ?top here, but ventured al?o to recommend him for a pen?ion to the great mini?terial hog, though, for the pre?ent, however, without effect; for though it was evident enough that our learned Pig could ?ay Ay, yet it did not follow that he would be [11] always di?po?ed to do ?o. He was therefore turned loo?e into the ?oil of this great town to ?ub?i?t as he could, where, idling and rambling, he picked up ?ometimes flowers, and ?ometimes thi?tles, a great number of Greek and Hebrew roots, with an immen?e quantity of verbage of every ?ort *. It is for his honour that he routed in this rich compo?t for years without giving any offence, except that, through re?entment to the Miltonic line, he a??ociated rather too long with a very ob?cene animal of the pig kind, called a † Lauder; and except, [12] that he was taken ?ometimes with ?trange freaks, and fancied [13] once that he ?aw ?omething in the ‡ ?hape of a ?ound of a knocking; and excepting al?o his too ?onorous gruntulations, and that long concatenation of ?oapy bubbles which [14] u?ually frothed from his mouth §. In the mid?t of the?e re?earches he had one morning the good fortune to throw up this ?entiment in rhyme:

• * The per?on here de?igned is allowed by the courte?y of the times to po??e?s a nervous and elegant ?tile; but ?o unhappy is the writer of this note, that he can by no means concur in the general prai?e. He has a notion of Saxon ?implicity, from which all departure, not enforced by nece??ity, and regulated by ta?te, a??imilating, as much as may be, foreign words to the genius of the Saxon tongue, is to him intolerable. But the writer here ?poken of was wholly deficient in ta?te, and appears to refer his Engli?h to ?ome foreign ?tandard chanting forth poly?yllables, and tiring the ear with dull returns of the ?ame cadences, for ever advancing like a po?t hor?e, two up and two down, and incapable of changing his pace, without throwing both him?elf and his rider in the dirt. But hack writers, like hack hor?es, find it for their ea?e to practi?e an uniform rate.

• † There is, ?ays 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 Augu?t 1747, page 363 and 364, ?igned 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 ?ecret of Lauder’s forgeries, the fact it?elf being of ?o extraordinary a nature, that it is not probable that any two per?ons, ?eparately capable of committing it, ?hould ?o fortuitou?ly meet together; yet ?uch was his malevolence towards Milton, that we mu?t admit it to have greatly clouded his under?tanding. He undoubtedly wrote the preface and the po?t?cript to Lauder’s publication: in allu?ion to which, Doctor Douglas ?ays, that ’tis hoped, nay ’tis expected, that the the elegant and nervous writer, who?e judicious ?entiments and inimitable ?tyle point out author of Lauder’s preface and po?t?cript, will no longer allow one to plume him?elf with his feathers, who appears ?o little to have de?erved his a??i?tance. Lauder confe??es his guilt in a letter to Doctor Douglas, and takes all the obloquy on him?elf; but in a ?ub?equent letter he declares, that the penitential one was written for him by that very gentleman, who has ?ince written the life of Milton, and makes ?ome complaints of a breach of friend?hip, in which he had placed the mo?t 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 ?trange malignity which darkened his under?tanding. It mu?t be owned, however, that he cut off the wreck of Lauder with great management, as well as competent ?ucce?s. I remember that he boa?ts 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 ?uppo?e, he would pa?s for his benevolence; but he mu?t excu?e me; I am not ?o much the dupe of charity as to believe, that he who ?o brutally calumniates Milton, his father, mother, uncles, wives, and children, and all unfortunate ?ouls that trace him in his line, would be moved by any charitable di?po?ition towards any de?cendant of Milton’s, as being ?uch. The fact, I believe, is, that, finding Milton reduced by the labours of his friend Lauder to a level with his wi?hes, he practi?ed, in concurrence with Mr. Lauder, one further act of malice, and endeavoured to fix an obligation on Milton in the per?on of his granddaughter, conferred by his mo?t inveterate foes as the effect of ?atiated vengeance, converted into mingled pity and contempt. If there is any har?hne?s in this note, let it be remembered, that it ?peaks of a man who, in the in?tance mentioned, let loo?e the mo?t outrageous malignity again?t 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 ?o exemplary a virtue, as to do the highe?t honour to literary pur?uit, and who?e genius, as a poet, conferred celebrity on the nation it?elf, and in who?e protection therefore we ought to have taken a greater ?hare.

• ‡ The hi?tory of this knocking is curious; it forms ?uch a drama of comedy, tragedy, and farce, from its fir?t commencement in Cock Lane, pa??ing through the ?olemn vaults of Clerkenwell, and then to We?tmin?ter Hall, as, I believe, never was exhibited in any other country; a drama wherein childi?hne?s and age, gravity, dignities, folly, fraud, ?uper?tition, and credulity, were all largely and confu?edly thrown in to thicken the plot. That the per?on here de?ignated ?hould carry out of this ?cene any re?pectability of character, is a proof that either he mu?t have po??e??ed great intrin?ic worth, who could bear ?uch large deductions, or that public opinion has cea?ed to be the te?t of merit, if any ba?e metal can in this manner pa?s current for gold.

• § Our biographer ?hould have told us al?o, that once he joined the train of fancy, and pa??ing the limits of fact, entered by the Shake?pearean gate into fairy land. But in an evil hour, “No favouring Sybil marked the devious way.” Never was man or pig ?o a?tounded! and no wonder. He had ?tumbled unaccountably on the creations of ?en?ibility, and found no corre?ponding emotions within; yet, uncon?cious of defect, he pretended a knowledge of the country, and even offered him?elf 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 jealou?ly attached to his party; he not only loved a man the better, if he hated a Whig. Dear Bathur?t, ?aid 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 hone?t; and you know it is ridiculous for a Whig to pretend to be hone?t.” Bo?well’s Journal, p. 424.

  Talking of Granger—“The dog is a Whig: I do not like much to ?ee a Whig in any dre?s; but I hate to ?ee a Whig in a par?on’s gown.”—Ibid. p. 312.

There needed no more; a pen?ion was immediately hung about his neck, and the letters L.L.D. ?oon afterwards impre??ed on his rump *. And now who but our Pig? lying in the ?un, cheek by jowl, by the great mini?terial Hog, routing in the political ?oil, and throwing up daily the mo?t delicious [16] pig-nuts with his ?nout; nor did the?e di?coveries re?t wholly in him?elf; for the great Hog would ?ometimes let fall, from behind, certain rich, but often crude and ill-dige?ted, materials, which were taken up in the We?tphalian mode by our Pig, and delivered again better concocted to the many-headed bea?t: and hence we were taught, that Taxation was no Tyranny, and that a good American war was a very commodious and ?alutary thing. Great applau?e en?ued, but not unattended with envy, there being at the time many ?narlers who have ?aid, and now ?ay, that it were better if our Pig had been, before this period, well ?ou?ed in the pickling tub, and that even the great mini?terial Hog him?elf had been hung up for bacon. I decide nothing on the?e brawls; yet, having re?pect to a certain ?uppo?ed dignity in our Pig, it may, perhaps, excite ?ome wonder, that he, who?e politics were of no older a date than his pen?ion, and who had hitherto never routed out of the moral track, ?hould all at once lend him?elf out in this manner, and make his con?cience re?pon?ible for mea?ures, of the principles or effects of which he mu?t have been ?o incompetent a judge. But I an?wer in few words, that, like all other [17] politicians, he had his propen?ities; that it was, perhaps, the nature of the animal, and that mingling his humours and his rea?on together, there might have been a competent ?incerity in the ca?e. But what ?hall we ?ay to the indecency of his turning up the graves of Pope and † Swift, (for I ?peak not now of Milton) and goring them, Tories as they were, with ?o malicious a tooth? I an?wer, fir?t, 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 in?tinctive enmities in the world. The?e men of real genius were ?atiri?ts by profe??ion, and the natural enemies of Pig?—“The fewer ?till I name,” ?ays Pope, “I hurt the more.”—“Bond is but one, but Balaam is a ?core;” and again, “An hundred ?mart in Timon and in Balaam.” And I believe that our Pig ?marted in Bentley, Tibbald, and po??ibly in many others; the ?torm [18] had but ju?t patted before him, and he heard the arrowy ?hower ?till rattle in his ear, and was con?cious, perhaps, that had he come forth a day ?ooner, he would have been placed in a di?tingui?hed, but, to him, a very unplea?ant, niche in the Dunciad of Pope,

• * Our author da?hes away from thing to thing with very little method or order. He might, however, have touched on the occupation of a ?choolma?ter, ?o honourable for a pig; in proof of which, we could have furni?hed him with the following document:

  “At Edial, near Litchfield, in Stafford?hire, young gentlemen are boarded and taught the Latin and Greek languages by Samuel John?on.”

  ADVERTISEMENT IN THE GENT. MAG. 1736, p. 428.

• † “He ?eemed to me to have an unaccountable prejudice again?t Swift; for I once took the liberty to a?k him, if Swift had per?onally offended him; and he told me, he had not.”—Bo?well’s Tour, p. 38.

Where he in?ults therefore the mighty dead, his rage is at lea?t natural; and when, to wound Pope, he ?uborns the tongue of a * kitchen wench, he pre?erves, however, a nice proportion between his end and his means, doing, with very ?ingular propriety, the ba?e?t thing in, what mu?t be allowed to be, the lowe?t way. But we ab?tain, we affect not gravity, we even forget his almo?t felonious attack upon Milton, and proceed. We have already noted the facility with which [19] our learned Pig could ?ay Ay. It was a great accompli?hment; but he had al?o his defects. † No art, no in?truction could ever bring him to make a tolerable bow, or indeed to practice any civil grimace whatever; and his highe?t approach, in this way, towards humanity, never went farther than to entitle him, from the mo?t exqui?ite judge, to the character of a very re?pectable Hottentot: and hence he became at la?t to be con?idered as a very great ‡ Bore; under [20] which di?grace he retired to a brewery in the Borough.—Happy retirement! for here he was fed with the fre?he?t grains by the fair hand of a lady, who conde?cended to become the prie?te?s of our Pig; a lady who had acquired the Greek language without lo?ing her own, and who?e manners and latinity were both equally pure. How great therefore mu?t have been his grief, when he afterwards ?aw his fair provider melt away into the arms of a ?oft, but doubtle?s ?inewy Signor, and bathe her?elf, as it is yet her fortune to do, in the voluptuous warmths of Italy. But her’s, however be the prai?e, that, compo?ed of gentle pa??ions, ?he con?cientiou?ly ?acrificed, at thirty-eight, fortune, freedom, and England, only to legalize her delights. Never in any future period may ?he be repentant of her choice, but always find in the joys of [21] harmony a compen?ation for the decays of love. From the fair hand of this lady our Pig was not only fed with the fine?t grains, but with the choice?t green peas al?o, the earlie?t of the year—delicious food, as he him?elf confe??es—for a § Pig. By her too was prepared for him the mo?t inviting draff, which he ?willed up at all hours with huge avidity and delight. But the lady had her humours; ?he grew tired of one thing, and fond of another; ?he ?ought, upon pre??ing inducements, the great rendezvous of Bath; and ?o the joys of the brewery had an end. Many were of opinion, (for who can plea?e all,) that a certain di?tillery in the neighbourhood would have been a more apt and proper retreat for our Pig;—but there were difficulties; I enter not into dome?tic affairs; but whether there was any whiggi?m, or rival?hip, or jealou?y, or what el?e in the ca?e, I know not; but certain it [22] is, that Sir Jo?eph 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 ?taff in his paws, and a ? monkey on his back. When he fir?t obtained a pen?ion, he had been very affectionately con?idered by the people of that country, and in a manner naturalized, and become one of them; but he di?covered ?oon afterwards, and more particularly on this occa?ion, ?o much of the badger in his di?po?ition, that they found great rea?on to complain of the ?trength and har?hne?s of his jaw. On his return he re?orted again to his beloved brewery, as yet profu?e of grains and draff, where he grunted forth, as was his cu?tom, many ?trange and ?ingular things, faithfully now on record, pretending al?o to cure certain mental di?ea?es by the medicinal qualities of his tongue; but its extreme roughne?s the ?en?ibility of his patients could not bear. Enough has been ?aid; the re?t ?hall [23] be left to Bozzy. Yet we will add, that with all his peculiarities, he had virtues and merits enough to make us heartily wi?h he were ?till in being:—But, alas, it is pa?t, and he is now cutting up into junks, to be ?old pro bono publico at nine different ?hops in retail.

• * Mo?t of what can be told concerning his petty peculiarities was communicated by a female dome?tic of the Earl of Oxford, who knew him, perhaps, after the middle of life.—John?on’s Lives of the Poets, 8vo. vol. 4, p. 141.

• † And yet certain it is that no pains was ?pared for this purpo?e; for “my mother (?aid he) was always telling me that I did not behave my?elf; that I ?hould endeavour to learn behaviour, and ?uch cant.” Indeed his defect in this particular could not be overlooked by his mo?t partial admirer; for “I ?uppo?e none (?ays ?he) who ?aw his odd manner of ge?ticulation, much blamed or wondered at the good lady’s ?olicitude concerning her ?on’s behaviour.”—Piozzi’s Memoirs of John?on, p. 24 and 25.

• ‡ Cant words are u?ually begot in a cellar by fun upon folly: but the word bore and boar has another origin; it was begot on a ?ofa by Madamoi?elle Ennui upon her?elf, and brought forth into the world in the mid?t of the ton. The roar and fury of the river Severn the people of the country call the boar. A female ?aint was reported miraculou?ly to have ?hed tears: the fact was denied by a Madrid carpenter who had made the ?aint, “becau?e (?ays he) ?he is not only compo?ed of heart of oak, but if ?he had been at all di?po?ed to weep, ?he mu?t have wept when I bored an aperture with my large?t augre in her rump.” And thus teazing and vexation of every kind may be called a bore. A dun is a bore, and a ?ermon is a bore, and ?o forth; but the greate?t of all po??ible bores, in whatever ?pelling, is a hu?band, a bore at night, a bore in the morning, and, in ?hort, one general univer?al bore. Our author has u?ed this fa?hionable word with the mo?t perfect propriety, in a ?en?e ?atisfying the very letter, as well as ?pirit of the word.

• § When we went into Wales together, and ?pent ?ome time at Sir Robert Cotton’s at Llewenney, one day at dinner I meant to plea?e Mr. John?on particularly with a di?h of very young peas.—“Are not they charming?” ?aid I to him, while he was eating them.—“Perhaps (?aid he) they would be ?o—to a Pig.”—Piozzi, p. 63.

• ? This pa??age ?eems inexplicable. We have had re?ort to Bozz, but in vain: the ?taff, indeed, he readily acknowledged; but as to the other a??ociate, or who, or what was meant, neither he nor we were able to di?cover.