Court and parliament being agitated, the lackeys imitated their betters. The footmen, in waiting for their masters, who were members of Parliament, had free access to Westminster Hall. For six and thirty years they had imitated their masters, by electing a ‘Speaker’ among themselves, whenever the members made a more exalted choice within their own House. The Whig lackeys were for Mr. Strickland’s man. The Tory liveried gentry resolved to elect Sir Thomas Morgan’s fellow. A battle-royal ensued in place of an election. The combatants were hard at it, when the House broke up, and the members wanted their coaches. Wounds were then hastily bandaged, but their pain nursed wrath. On the next night, the hostile parties, duly assembled, attacked each other with fury. The issue was long uncertain, but finally the Tory footmen gained a costly victory, in celebration of which Sir Thomas Morgan’s servant, terribly battered, was carried three times triumphantly round the Hall. There was no malice. The lackeys clubbed together for drink at a neighbouring ale-house, where the host gave them a dinner gratis. The dinner was made expressly to create insatiable thirst, and before the banquet came to a close, every man was as drunk as his master. [Sidenote: _SATIRE._] In March, 1715, Bishop Burnet, the man more hated by the Jacobites than any other, died. These perhaps further indulged their hatred of the very name, by attributing to his youngest son, Thomas Burnet, the authorship of a famous Tory ballad, which was long praised, condemned, quoted or sung in London coffee-houses,――it was named BISHOP BURNET’S DESCENT INTO HELL. The devils were brawling at Burnet’s descending, But at his arrival they left off contending; Old Lucifer ran his dear Bishop to meet, And thus the Archdevil, th’ Apostate did greet:―― ‘My dear Bishop Burnet I’m glad beyond measure, This visit, unlook’d for, gives infinite pleasure. And, oh! my dear Sarum, how go things above? Does George hate the Tories, and Whigs only love?’ ‘Was your Highness _in propriâ personâ_ to reign, You could not more justly your empire maintain.’ ‘And how does Ben Moadley?’――‘Oh! he’s very well, A truer blue Whig you have not in hell.’ ‘Hugh Peters is making a sneaker within For Luther, Buchanan, John Knox, and Calvin; And when they have toss’d off a brace of full bowls, You’ll swear you ne’er met with much honester souls. ‘This night we’ll carouse in spite of all pain. Go, Cromwell, you dog, and King William unchain, And tell him his Gilly is lately come down, Who has just left his mitre, as he left his crown. Whose lives till they died, in our service were spent; They only come hither who never repent. Let Heralds aloud then our victories tell; Let George reign for ever!’――‘Amen!’ cried all hell.