There needed no more; a penſion was immediately hung about his neck, and the letters L. L. D. ſoon afterwards impreſſed on his rump [13]. 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 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 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 [14] _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 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.”