caused much excitement, the confiscation of the portrait, and the incarceration of the poet. [Sidenote: _POPE AND ATTERBURY._] In the Tower the bishop was treated with unusual severity. Pope, in a letter to Gay (September 11th, 1722), ridicules the rigour observed with respect to small things: ‘Even pigeon-pies and hogs’-puddings are thought dangerous by our governors; for those that have been sent to the Bishop of Rochester are opened and profanely pried into at the Tower. It is the first time that dead pigeons have been suspected of carrying intelligence.’ In October, however, means seem to have been adopted by which the annoyance of ‘prying’ could be avoided. In a letter to Carlyle (October 26th) Pope says: ‘I very much condole with my friend whose confinement you mention, and very much applaud your obliging desire of paying him a compliment at this time of some venison, the method of which I have been bold to prescribe to Lady Mary.’ [Sidenote: ‘_THE BLACKBIRD._’] John Wesley’s elder brother, ‘Sam,’ earnest in his duties as one of the masters of Westminster School, but still more earnestly hopeful, though not active, as a High Tory and Jacobite, showed his indignation at his patron’s incarceration and treatment, in a lively poem called ‘The Blackbird.’ This pleasant songster’s enemies were nailed to the general ‘barn-door’ as screech-owl, vulture, hawk, bat, and The noisy, senseless, chattering Pie, The mere Lord William of the sky. The poet next disposed of Colonel Williamson:―― The Kite, fit gaoler must be nam’d, In prose and verse already fam’d: Bold to kill mice, and now and then To steal a chicken from a hen. None readier was, when seized, to slay, And often to dissect his prey; With all the insolence can rise From power when join’d to cowardice. The captive Blackbird kept his cheer; The gaoler, anxious, shook with fear, Lest roguy traitors should conspire T’ unlock the door or break the wire; Traitors, if they but silence broke, And disaffected if they look. For, by himself, he judg’d his prey, If once let loose, would fly away. Conscious of weakness when alone, He dares not trust him, one to one. So, every day and every hour, He shows his caution and his power, Each water-drop he close inspects, And every single seed dissects; Nay, swears with a suspicious rage, He’ll shut the air out of the cage. The Blackbird, with a look, replies, That flash’d majestic from his eyes; Not sprung of Eagle-brood, the Kite Falls prostrate, grovelling, at the sight. A Hero thus, with awful air (If birds with heroes may compare), A ruffian greatly could dismay: ‘Man! dar’st thou Caius Marius slay?’ Blasted the coward wretch remains, And owns the Roman, though in chains. [Sidenote: _TREATMENT OF ATTERBURY._]