In one matter, indeed, Grenville, at the expense of justice and liberty, gratified the passions of the Court while gratifying his own.  The persecution of Wilkes was eagerly pressed.  He had written a parody on Pope’s Essay on Man, entitled the Essay on Woman, and had appended to it notes, in ridicule of Warburton’s famous Commentary.  This composition was exceedingly profligate, but not more so, we think, than some of Pope’s own works, the imitation of the second satire of the first book of Horace, for example; and, to do Wilkes justice, he had not, like Pope, given his ribaldry to the world.  He had merely printed at a private press a very small number of copies, which he meant to present to some of his boon companions, whose morals were in no more danger of being corrupted by a loose book than a negro of being tanned by a warm sun.  A tool of the Government, by giving a bribe to the printer, procured a copy of this trash, and placed it in the hands of the ministers.  The ministers resolved to visit Wilkes’s offence against decorum with the utmost rigour of the law.  What share piety and respect for morals had in dictating this resolution, our readers may judge from the fact that no person was more eager for bringing the libertine poet to punishment than Lord March, afterwards Duke of Queensberry.  On the first day of the session of Parliament, the book, thus disgracefully obtained, was laid on the table of the Lords by the Earl of Sandwich, whom the Duke of Bedford’s interest had made Secretary of State.  The unfortunate author had not the slightest suspicion that his licentious poem had ever been seen, except by his printer and a few of his dissipated companions, till it was produced in full Parliament.  Though he was a man of easy temper, averse from danger, and not very susceptible of shame, the surprise, the disgrace, the prospect of utter ruin, put him beside himself.  He picked a quarrel with one of Lord Bute’s dependants, fought a duel, was seriously wounded, and when half recovered, fled to France.  His enemies had now their own way both in the Parliament and in the King’s Bench.  He was censured, expelled from the House of Commons, outlawed.  His works were ordered to be burned by the common hangman.  Yet was the multitude still true to him.  In the minds even of many moral and religious men, his crime seemed light when compared with the crime of his accusers.  The conduct of Sandwich in particular, excited universal disgust.  His own vices were notorious; and, only a fortnight before he laid the Essay on Woman before the House of Lords, he had been drinking and singing loose catches with Wilkes at one of the most dissolute clubs in London.  Shortly after the meeting of Parliament, the Beggar’s Opera was acted at Covent Garden theatre.  When Macheath uttered the words—­“That Jemmy Twitcher should peach me I own surprised me,”—­pit, boxes, and galleries, burst into a roar which seemed likely to bring the roof down.  From that day Sandwich was universally known by the nickname of