"I have an opportunity (says he, in the letter from which we have just cited) calmly and philosophically to consider that treasure of vileness and baseness that I always believed to be in the heart of man, and to behold them exert their insolence and baseness; every new instance, instead of surprising and grieving me, as it does some of my friends, really diverts me, and, in a manner, proves my theory."

In a subsequent letter, dated October 19, (Scott's Swift, xvi. 246), a still more deplorable account is given of the misfortunes in which the queen's death had involved her courtiers. "The queen's poor servants are like so many poor orphans exposed in the very streets." Arbuthnot himself was compelled to quit his establishment in St. James's palace, and to take a house in Dover-street, where he endeavoured to forget his political anxieties in literary occupation. His spirits appear to have suffered considerably at this time, for, in a letter to Pope, on the 7th September, 1714, (Scott's Swift, xvi. 241) he says:

"I am extremely obliged to you for taking notice of a poor, old, distressed courtier, commonly the most despicable thing in the world. This blow has so roused Scriblerus, that he has recovered his senses, and thinks and talks like other men. From being frolick some and gay, he is turned grave and morose. Martin's office is now the second door on the left hand in Dover-street, where he will be glad to see Dr. Parnell, Mr. Pope, and his old friends, to whom he can still afford a half-pint of claret."

*

*

In this letter is contained that admirable picture of Dean Swift's state of mind, after the defeat of his party:

"I have seen a letter from Dean Swift: he keeps up his noble spirit; and though like a man knocked down, you may behold him still with a stern countenance, and aiming a blow at his adversaries."

Arbuthnot also, though depressed for a time, soon resumed his humorous pen; and, true to the interests of his party, produced, early in the following year, another political pasquinade.

At the conclusion of the first volume of the Miscellaneous Works, we find a curious article, entitled, Notes and Memorandums of the six days preceding the Death of a Right Reverend— containing many remarkable passages, with an Inscription designed for his Monument. Printed in 1715. That this satire on Bishop Burnet is the composition of Arbuthnot, rests entirely on the credit of the editor of the present collection, and on its internal evidence; but from its comic and cutting humour, it seems to be attributed to its proper author. If, indeed, it was published at the time of the bishop's death, which happened

on the 17th of March, 1715, it would certainly seem to detract somewhat from Arbuthnot's well-merited reputation for humanity and kind feeling. Among all the political opponents of the tory faction, none appear to have incurred greater odium than Burnet, whose honest relation of the history of his own times excited at once the fear and the spleen of his enemies. To ridicule that valuable work, even before its publication, all the literary talents of the tories were put into requisition; and while Arbuthnot performed his share of the task in the present Notes and Memorandums, Pope gave to the world the Memoirs of P. P. Clerk of this Parish. It appears from the Testimonies of Authors, prefixed to the Dunciad, (Warton's Pope, v. 33.) that a Mr. James Moore Smith, wishing to satirise the Bishop of Sarum, "pressed Dr. Arbuthnot and Mr. Pope to assist him therein;" but it also appears from the same authority, that this gentleman," having more mind than ability," was unable to accomplish his purpose. To the hint thus given, may, perhaps, be owing the Memoirs of P. P., and the present satire. Dean Swift very probably assisted in the composition of the Memoirs of P. P., and contributed his share towards irritating and injuring the bishop, by an ironical preface to the introduction to the third volume of the History of the Reformation. He there represents Burnet, who had produced a pamphlet as a precursor to his folio, as "armed only with a pocket pistol, before his great blunderbuss could be got ready, his old rusty breastplate scoured, and his cracked head-piece mended.—(Scott's Swift, iv. 314.) Burnet took a silent revenge upon the dean, and totally omitted any mention of him in his history. In the short remarks by Swift upon Bishop Burnet's history, (Scott's Swift, x. 252,) the dean has, indeed, done justice to his adversary's sincerity. "He is," says he, "the most partial of all writers that ever pretended so much to impartiality, and yet I, who knew him well, am convinced that he is as impartial as he could possibly find in his heart: I am sure more than I ever expected from him, particularly in his account of the papists and fanatic plots. * * * After all he was a man of generosity and good-nature, and very communicative; but in his last ten years was absolutely party-mad, and fancied he saw popery under every bush." Of the attacks thus made upon the honest bishop, Pope's, perhaps, displays most wit and ingenuity, and Arbuthnot's the most comic humour. The personal vanity and egotism of Burnet are unmercifully ridiculed.

"Sunday."

"Resolve to see nobody to-day. Resolve to drink three quarts of water-gruel instead of my tea. Sick, very sick: call for my man. Order him to bring the folio in MS. of my own life and

*

times. Consider what a great name I shall leave behind me. Dr. Wellwood stole his memoirs from my conversation. He has gained a great reputation. I shall certainly: better than Thuanus. Man brings the book. Begin to read. An excellent preface: very happy at prefaces. Courts of Charles and James. Juggling, tricking, mistresses, French money, more money, slavery, popery, arbitrary power, liberty, plots, Italy, Geneva, Rome, Titus Oates, Dangerfield, money again, peace, war, war, peace, more money. Lay down the book, reflect how I came to know all this. Drink a glass of wine. Try to go to sleep in my easy chair. Nod a little. Wake better. Return to my book. Read and drink tea till night. Much about myself. Vacancies of places. Bishopricks, deaneries, livings. New oaths. Clergy obstinate. Sherlock alone: South and Sherlock: Fenwick, Collier. Parliament against us. Tories prevail. Miserable times. Preach against them. Interrupted. Friend comes in by Jonathan's mistake. Good news however. All of our side; public justice; no security like it. Talk of indifferent matters. Pity L-d Thomas's s son. It must be dissolved. Afflictions fall to the righteous. Sons are strange giddy things. Think of my Tom.* Read a page of my book to a friend. He is in raptures; I am much better. Talk cheerfully. Drink some sack. Clock strikes nine. He goes. Walk about a little. Feet weak. Giddiness in the head. Call for my quilted cap. Look in the glass. Cap falls over mine eyes. Sad token; new fears. Mem. To send for a physician in the morning. Human means necessary. Man must co-operate. Grow worse. to bed. Forget that it was Sunday."

Go

The scene of the good bishop preaching an extempore sermon to his family in his chamber, is inimitable.

*

* *

Bid Survey them Robin seems to

"Order the family to come up stairs at seven. Resolved to preach before them extempore. Not much matter what the text is; easy to run off from the subject and talk of the times. my man get the great chair ready. Family comes up. with delight. The damsel Jane has a wicked eye. meet her glances. Unsanctified vessels! children of wrath! Look again at Jane. A tear of penitence in her eye. Sweet drops! Grace triumphs! Sin lies dead! Wish Tom were present. He might be reformed. Consider how many sermons it is probable Tom hears in one year. Afraid not one. Alas the Temple! Alas the Temple! The law eats up divinity; it corrupts manners, raises contentions amongst the faithful; feeds upon poor vicarages, and devours widows' houses, without making long prayers. Alas the Temple! Never liked that place since it harboured Sacheverell. He certainly spread an infection there. A swimming of my head. Seem to hear the noise of tumults, riots, seditions. Fresh noises of high

* Thomas Burnet, educated to the bar, and afterwards Mr. Justice Burnet.

church; the doctor: what would the multitude have? Why are they incensed? Who of our order has offended? Impeach, silence, hang, behead! That a name of a man should turn one's head to a giddiness! Say a short mental prayer. Cool by degrees. Jane petitions not to hear the sermon, but make her beds. There is no dealing with youthful inclinations. They are unsteady in every path. They leave the direct way. Walk in by places and corners. Give her leave to depart. Resolve within myself to deny Robin to go, if he should ask. Robin asks. Reprove him thus: 'I have watched your mutual temptations, and the snares you laid for each other. You, Robin, I say, and the damsel Jane. Forbear your iniquity; struggle with sin; make not excuses to follow the handmaid. Thou shalt stay here, and hear and edify.' Prepare to preach. Hem thrice. Spread my hands; lift up my eyes; attempt to raise myself. Sink backwards. Faint suddenly."

In the journal for Monday, a dialogue is introduced between the bishop and his physician, Sir Samuel Garth, who was, in fact, the Esculapius whom the Whigs worshipped, as the Tories did Arbuthnot. The latter, indeed, may be said to have been displaced by Garth, who was knighted with Marlborough's sword, on the accession of the House of Hanover, and appointed physician to the king. Sir Samuel is well known to have been somewhat free in his sentiments upon religion, a circumstance which is touched upon in this dialogue, and which occasioned the remark of Pope, that if ever there was a good Christian without knowing himself to be so, it was Dr. Garth. Proceeding from the pen of a rival, both in medicine and politics, this dialogue may be considered as curious and interesting. We subjoin the conclusion, from which we may infer, that Garth adopted the rough manner towards his patients, in preference to that smooth and conciliating style of address, which sometimes marks the courtly physician.

"Patient. Don't shake your head so, dear doctor. Tell me plainly what hopes you have of me. I don't love to be flattered, I never flattered any body myself.

"Doctor. No! That's strange indeed; flatter nobody! I wonder how you lived so long then. Come, put out your tongue, that must be viewed too.

"Patient. Why, doctor, you don't pretend to tell by one's tongue whether one has flatter'd or no. Come, to oblige you, see it. "Doctor. A strange tongue! an unflattering tongue, truly! For it tells a sad truth, I am sure, at present.

"Patient. Pray what's that?

"Doctor. Only you have got a lurking fever, and your church bellows are so inflamed, that I dare prognosticate they can't blow much longer.

"Patient. Ah, doctor! I have used them, I fear, with too much

vehemence they have been serviceable lungs for our cause. But give me a little better comfort before you leave me.

"Doctor. If blood-letting, coolers, lambatives, and pectorals, are comforts, I shall prescribe you enough, never fear. But I have your own word not to flatter you.

"Patient. But do you think I can weather it, or how long is it probable I shall last?

"Doctor. Till you stink, as far as I know. You should have sent for me sooner; and yet I am not certain but that you may survive it. I would have you chear up, Son of Thunder. A good spirit is a half cure in many cases. Besides I know you black gentlemen have a good trick at deceiving the devil. It is your business to do it. Stand upon your guard, for it is pro aris et focis now.

"Patient. I will, I will-but, prithee, don't be so irreligious, Doctor; I have a great respect for your constancy in a good cause, and your name has done us service in verse and prose.

"Doctor. Why, sir, have you the vanity to think, that religion ever did our cause any service? If that comes into your head, and you squeak at last, it is time for me to bid you good night.

"Patient. I will do any thing you order me, but I must confess, that I begin to think a man can't die easily without repentance.

"Doctor. Farewell then; my time is past: there can be no hopes, if you talk at this rate. I will tell the kit-cat club of you, and it shall be known to every man at court, that you die like a pedant. Farewell."

That Arbuthnot did not entertain any very high opinion of his rival, appears from a passage in a letter written to Dean Swift, soon after the queen's death, (Scott's Swift, xvi. 246,) in which he says, "Garth told me his merit was giving intelligence about his mistress's health. I desired he would do me the favour to say, that I valued myself upon quite the contrary; and I hoped to live to see the day when his majesty would value me the more for it too."

In order to divert the chagrin occasioned by the queen's death and the misfortune of his friends, Dr. Arbuthnot determined to make a tour in France, where he left two of his daughters under the care of their uncle, who was residing in that country. In the memoirs prefixed to his miscellaneous works, this journey is said to have been undertaken before 1716; but from a letter addressed to Swift, (Scott's Swift, xvi. 338,) it must have taken place in 1718. He staid six weeks at Paris, and as long at Rouen. During his residence at Paris, he had the honour of appearing at court as the conductor of a celebrated Irish beauty, Miss Nelly Bennet, upon whom some lines appear in Swift's Works, (xiii. 347,) which were probably the production of Arbuthnot himself. Miss Bennet was "admired beyond all the ladies in France for her beauty-She had great honours done her. The hussar himself was ordered to