In 1726 Jonathan Swift, dean of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin, crossed the Irish sea with the manuscript of Gulliver’s Travels in his luggage. Beneath the child-friendly chatter about a sailor marooned on an island full of tiny Lilliputians, the book was a scabrous satire on the corruption of public life under the politically ascendant Whigs, whom Swift regarded as a pack of moral pygmies.
Swift’s ultimate destination, though, was not Whitehall but rather the idyllic Twickenham – “Twitnam”, as they knew it – home of his old friend, the poet Alexander Pope. Here he intended to work out a plan for anonymous publication of his sulphurous masterpiece, one that would not land him in legal trouble. In Pope he could be sure of a sympathetic co‑conspirator. Both men were members of the Scriblerus Club, an unofficial association of dissident wits who nonetheless set great store by literary collaboration. Pope was equally disaffected with the state of the nation, although his loathing was directed towards the philistine Hanoverians, who had arrived from Germany in 1714 to take up the British throne. Pope, whose Catholicism disqualified him from royal patronage, made a big point of not having to scramble for favours from the court. Instead, he emphasised the superiority of his life of suburban independence on the banks of the Thames.
