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. [10] 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. [11] 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. [12] “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.