by Edward Cline
Dogmael Jones, member for Swansditch, sat at his regular table not far from the fireplace. His leather boots were nearly dry from having this morning twice negotiated the chilly black puddles between the Purgatory, Waghorn’s, and a disreputable tavern in one of Westminster’s anonymous back alleys, a place frequented by hackney drivers, watermen, and apprentices, and which bore the grandiose name of the King’s Table. At the latter, he had met a man named Trevors, a clerk to Thomas Whately, member for Ludgershall and George Grenville’s private secretary at the Treasury. This man served as one of Jones’s regular sources of information, for he had regular gambling debts, notwithstanding his salary and income derived from departmental fees, and so was appreciative of every little coin that came his way. Jones, generously endowed with money from his elector, Baron Garnet Kenrick, for just this kind of contingency, had exchanged five guineas for a packet of purloined correspondence, that is, letters and memoranda copied by Trevors from their originals. The furtive meeting lasted five minutes. After a quick glance at the documents, Jones had put them into his already bulging portfolio, bought the man a dram of gin, and departed. Trevors, who never ventured to audit the Commons from the gallery, for the business of the House did not interest him, did not know Jones’s name, but only suspected that his terse benefactor was an agent for some eminence in Lords.
From the King’s Table Jones picked his way to Waghorn’s, where he met and conferred with his allies in the Commons about what to expect and what to say when the House met in a Committee of Ways and Means later that morning. These men included Colonel Isaac Barré and William Beckford, member for London and a past lord mayor of the City. The subject was the resolutions for the stamp tax bill that were to be introduced by Grenville that day. It was a brief meeting over coffee and hot toddies, held to reassure one another that they would speak against the resolutions in particular and against the bill in general when recognized by the chairman, Thomas Hunter. They did not agree on any fundamental principle for opposing the legislation; they agreed only that it must be vigorously opposed. For most of these men, passage of the bill into a Parliamentary act seemed fraught with dangers which they could associate only with a decline in trade, somehow connected with illegality. The bill was somewhat like a stiff, steady breeze that preceded a storm. A storm was certain, but of what severity and of what duration? The canvases on the creaking masts rumbled and complained from the contradictory winds, and the pennants rippled maddeningly, first east, then west, and then drooped ominously for no reason at all.
Dogmael Jones was the only man among them who denied Parliament’s authority to tax the colonies in any manner for any reason. He rejected as irrelevant all the standard arguments for and against the bill. He was as dissatisfied with his allies’ positions as his allies were unsettled by his own. It was an informal brotherhood for liberty that met at Waghorn’s that morning, whose membership brandished a small forest of argumentative levers but could not decide on the proper fulcrum with which to dislodge Grenville’s impending tax legislation. Like so many of their colonial counterparts, most of these men were sincere in their fear for British liberty at home and abroad, but were prisoners of their premises. They were vaguely aware of this weakness; Jones was acutely aware of it.
On several past occasions, before and during the new session, Jones had tried to persuade his fellows to abandon their scattered positions on the legislation and mount a broad, consistent assault based on a denial of Parliamentary authority over the colonies. And always, the retorts would be the same:
“I would never deny that authority.”
“The authority is established. This is a matter of expediency.”
“We would precipitate a constitutional crisis!”
“There would be a cessation of all legislation!”
“All the Empire would be in turmoil! Radicals and freethinkers and freetraders would clamor against all Parliamentary authority!”
“We oppose the present stamp tax being extended to the colonies, because it is of Mr. Grenville’s initiative, not of His Majesty’s.”
“Mr. Grenville’s bill does raise constitutional questions, it must be admitted. It would, however, be quite proper and correct if His Majesty lent his shoulder to the idea — indeed, if he had originated it himself — and then the propriety of it would be beyond constitutional question, and of no concern of ours.”
“The colonies are no more exempt from Parliamentary imposts than are Birmingham and Bristol and so many of our manufacturing towns. But whether they are represented or no in the House, these towns rely heavily on colonial materials. So many merchants are worried that a tax would contribute to a reduction in the quantity of those materials and the frequency of their import.”
“We must concede Mr. Grenville his desires, but work diligently to pare the number of items he may wish to tax and the rates he may wish to impose.”
Jones had said, on all these occasions, “Then it is a fait accompli, sirs. Mr. Grenville has the power of precedent as an ally, which I needn’t remind you is the precedent of power. You will neither disagree with him nor question his main point. We will lose.”
Such disparate unanimity of the opposition, of which he was a member, confirmed in Jones’s mind that defeat was inevitable. It was as though his party laid claim to a great gun that could blast the ministry’s arguments in the Commons with a single shot, but all its parts lay unassembled on the ground. As the enemy advanced with beating drums and leveled bayonets, the crew argued over the best way to put the gun together.
He was doubly discouraged now. He had waited until he reached the familiar warmth and confinement of the Purgatory Tavern and his corner table there to read the documents he obtained from Trevors. Only one of them riveted his attention. He sat for a long while, as the busy tavern reverberated with the loud talk and laughter of its patrons, staring at the words that gave Grenville his confidence and momentum:
“…Though the question certainly does not want this, or any other authority, yet it will be a striking alteration to ignorant people, and an unanswerable argument ad homines; and, therefore, I wish you would employ somebody to look with this view into the origin of their power to tax themselves and raise any money at all.”
The statement appeared in a letter dated the 24th of December of last year, and was signed by Lord Chief Justice Mansfield of the King’s Bench. In the brief missive was a reference to Grenville’s request for his opinion on Parliament’s constitutional power to tax and regulate the colonies. In Jones’s mind, this information was worth twice what he had paid Trevors for the whole lot of confidential papers. He realized, of course, that he could not use it in debate, neither as documented proof of Grenville’s determination, nor in disinterested argumentation, not without betraying Trevors and laying himself and that man open to criminal charges.
It was information, however, he was resolved to share with Garnet Kenrick and his son in Virginia. Jones returned the documents to his portfolio and tied the leather strings. Then he sipped his ale, lit a pipe, and called the serving girl over to order breakfast. He checked his watch; he had an hour and a half to compose some remarks before the Committee of Ways and Means reconvened in the House. Oblivious to the drone of voices and the clatter and clink of dishes and glass around him, he sat thinking of what he could say, and used the turning tread wheel as a focal point.
It was just after he had pushed his finished plate away and taken out a notebook and pencil to jot down some thoughts that a large bulk abruptly obstructed his view of the tread wheel. Jones glanced up and saw the wide, well-fed frame of Sir Henoch Pannell, member for Canovan, a vocal and nearly belligerent supporter of Grenville’s stamp tax scheme.
Pannell regarded him with smug jollity. “Composing more injurious eloquence, Sir Dogmael?” he asked.
Jones glowered up at him, not only because he disliked the man, but because he had interrupted a thought. “Yes,” he answered. “And, like Demosthenes, I shall spit stones.”
> Pannell barked once in laughter. He and Jones had tangled this way before. He enjoyed the encounters, and knew that Jones did not. They had clashed frequently over John Wilkes and general warrants. “Bowler in the House, sirs!” exclaimed Pannell with another laugh. “You are, sir — and I admit this freely — the only decent bowler on the other team, if you catch my cricketish drift. But, as you know too well, my team boasts an abundance of superb batsmen. You’ve worried us something terrible, but not once come close to the wicket!”
Jones did not close his notebook; his pencil remained poised over a page. “Yes, sir,” he answered. “The comparison is quite plain to me. Now, if you would be so gracious as to state the purpose of this intrusion…?”
Pannell shook his head. “Purely a social one, I can assure you, sir.” He gestured to the empty chair opposite Jones. “May I?”
Jones grimaced, sighed, and put his notebook aside. “For a moment only, sir.” He was curious to hear the reason why the man had sought him out. Pannell removed his cloak and draped it over the back of the chair, which creaked when he sat in it. Jones thought he must weigh close to twenty stone. He remarked, “Surely, Sir Henoch, this place is too plebian for your society.”
Pannell shook his head. “Oh, no,” he laughed. “I am to be seen in all manner of places — gambling dens, cockpits, bagnios, the studies of great lords, and in the Commons.” He turned and bellowed an order of ale to the passing serving girl. “I heard some fellows say that you frequented this place. I came to see what were your preferred societal associations — other than that of your patron.”
Jones shrugged. “In past years, I have, at this very table, prepared numerous Crown frustrations, for delivery to the King’s Bench.”
“No doubt you believe you are preparing another, for the House.”
“Perhaps. But I believe that Mr. Grenville is preparing the Crown for an even greater agony, and you are in his chorus.” Before Pannell could reply, Jones said, “Now, sir: to your purpose.”
Pannell smiled. “I came to offer sympathy.”
“Sympathy?” scoffed Jones. “I do not know the dictionary that cites gloating as an associative of that sentiment. It is certainly not Dr. Johnson’s.”
Pannell frowned in mock concern. “Do I appear to gloat? I am sorry you have that impression. I must practice some sorrow. But sympathy I mean. You see, I have just come from Caesar’s Head, where I usually partake of something before the House sits, and had a few friendly words with Mr. Abercromby and Mr. Beckford. In point of fact, most of your party were there. Mr. Abercromby is tepid on the whole business of Mr. Grenville’s tax, while Mr. Beckford is, well, confused. Also, I overheard some talk between Colonel Barré and Sir George Savile there, on the same matter. I do not think they will pursue the constitutional question, for there is a rumor that Mr. Grenville has secured the assurances of an important person that there is no question at all. And I saw Mr. John Sargent of West Looe and Mr. Richard Jackson of Weymouth — I know that you and your patron have been consorting with those gentlemen — speaking over a breakfast with that fellow from Pennsylvania, Mr. Franklin, who is a Quaker, to tell from his simple but refined garments, and nearly as large as me. They looked earnest, but not very confident.”
Jones grimaced again. “And your conclusion, sir?”
Pannell chuckled. “Quite plainly, that Mr. Grenville shall triumph.”
The serving girl at that moment returned with Pannell’s ale. The man paid her and took a deep draught from the pewter mug. He wiped his mouth with a sleeve and beamed with haughty contentment at Jones.
Jones said, “Perhaps he shall, sir. Perhaps he will get all he seeks. I would even resign myself to his triumph, for I am certain that he will eventually smart from its Pyrrhic flames.”
“Flames, sir?” inquired Pannell with a snort, but unsure of Jones’s meaning. “Why so?”
Jones finished his own ale, then nodded to the tread wheel near the fireplace. “Humor me, sir, and direct your glance at the turnspit there.”
Pannell turned in his chair and obliged. He grunted once, then asked, “What flummery must you lay on me now?”
Jones said, “You will observe how the beast contributes to its own predicament. The drum is turned by each stride it takes, and to keep pace with the rotation, the beast must stride again and again in near perpetuity, acting as both genesis and victim of a momentum which it itself creates. There is harnessed dumbness for you.”
One of Pannell’s eyebrows rose in question. “Fascinating observation, sir. But what is your point?”
“I am reminded by it of the colonies, and the great mercantile tread wheel they have been turning since the Rump Parliament of Cromwell’s time.”
“A fair comparison, sir,” said Pannell, cocking his head in concession. “And one with which I confess an agreeable affinity.” He paused. “Why do you communicate it to me?”
This time Jones smiled. “If you had not intruded upon my meditations, you would have been spared the comparison.” He nodded again at the tread wheel. “Well, there, in the person of the turnspit, are the colonies, contributing mightily and without recourse to our country’s health, diet, and ease within the machinery of our trade regulations.” The turnspit happened to pause at that moment and attempted to scratch an itch. The boy attending the fireplace rose from his stool and rapped the bars of the wheel with his poker. With a pathetic whine, the animal began working again. “And, there you are, sir,” said Jones, “in the person of that boy — though you are three times his stone weight, I should hazard — urging them on with laws and acts and taxes. Of course, the boy and the beast are earning their keep — forgive the alliteration, but it is a memorable one, is it not? — while you, sir, produce nothing at all. There’s a conundrum to think on, a perfect caricature for some opposition magazine.”
Pannell chuckled with uncertainty. “I would fain pretend not to know the scope of your humor, sir.”
Jones frowned in agitation, then blurted with contemptuous astonishment, “Upon my word, sir! I cannot decide whether you are a Scapin or a Scaramouche!”
Pannell blinked once at this uncharacteristic outburst. “I do not know these arcane references,” he replied airily. With feigned unconcern, he took another draught of his ale.
“Arcane? If you read plays, you would know them, and then you would take offense at the one, and pleasure at the other, and have wit enough to compose an appropriate reply.” Jones looked thoughtful. “Perhaps you should engage a tutor, sir, an Italian gilly to accompany you on your conversational rounds and prompt you on your literary needs.”
Pannell grunted again in disdain. “I have little use for literature, sir. I have done quite well for myself, having read perhaps three books from beginning to end in my entire life.”
“Obviously, and quite true…if it is the whole truth,” mused Jones. Then he searched his memory, and said with melancholy irony:
“‘And the same age saw learning fall, and Rome.
With tyranny, then superstition joined,
As that the body, this enslaved the mind;
Much was believed, but little understood,
And to be dull was construed to be good.’”
Jones noted the confused furl of Pannell’s brow. “Mr. Alexander Pope,” he explained, expecting some evidence of recognition. But the furl remained.
A glint of anger appeared in Pannell’s eyes now. “Sir, you are skirting my censure. Please, do not ascribe motives of tyranny to me. I am as ardent a lover of British liberty as the next man.”
“That man being Mr. Grenville?” inquired Jones. “Well, I overestimated you, Sir Henoch. You are merely a Verges, helpmate to Constable Dogberry.”
Pannell pounded a fist once on the table. “Confound it, man! Will you cease this elevated manner of speaking, and speak plainly?”
Jones laughed, and shook his head. “No, sir, I will not. You are a guest at this table, and the table’s rules require educated rumination and repartee
. If you cannot observe those rules, you are free to leave.” He leaned closer to Pannell’s reddening face. “Come, sir. Own up! You boast of your dullness. Your like is to be found in both The Dunciad and The Rosciad!”
“I’ll be hanged first before I abide by your rules, Sir Dogmael!” growled Pannell. “I refuse to speak in acrostics! That manner may be balm for men of your ilk, but plain, dull business demands plain, dull language, spoken by plain, dull men like me!”
Jones shrugged and sat back in his chair. “To their everlasting loss. Well, I can see by your visage that an active, well-stocked mind is but a useless toyshop to you — all baubles and trifles — in which nothing practical may be purchased.” As he reached for a bottle and refilled his glass, he asked, “And what is your business here, sir?”
Pannell snorted once again and replied, “My business is done. You see, I have some knowledge of the remonstrance that came to the House last month, and also of the memorial sent to the Lords, from Virginia.”
Jones hummed in speculation. “By courtesy of Mr. Abercromby and Lord Danvers, without doubt.”
“You may wish to think that. But both the memorial and remonstrance are gravely upsetting. The foolish, ignorant people who authored them persist in their attempts to blind Mr. Grenville and the whole House with the mooncalves of representation and consent and the like. But Mr. Grenville will have none of that. It is right out as a topic of debate. I came to warn you, that is all.”
Jones shook his head in amusement. “How thoughtful of you. But you can be refreshingly brief and truthful, when sufficiently stirred,” he remarked. “However, you are neither Speaker nor Chairman, and I shall speak as I please, no matter how many groans of disapproval fill the House. Thank you, though, for your thoughtfulness.”
