down the associations of those facetious lines which made the Augustan divines, like their unwelcome forebear Hudibras, members

Of that stubborn Crew
Of Errant Saints, whom all men grant
To be the true Church Militant.

Those dignified Anglican exteriors were further punctured by Collins’s irreverent attack upon their cry of religious uniformity, a cry which was “ridiculous, romantick, and impossible to succeed.” He saw himself, in short, as an emancipated Butler or even Cervantes; and like his famous predecessors he too would laugh quite out of countenance the fool and the hypocrite, the pretender and the enthusiast, the knave and the persecuter, all those who would create a god in their own sour and puny image.

III

By 1727 several of the orthodox felt that they could take no more of Collins’s laughter, his sneering invectives against the clergy, or his designs to make religion “a Matter purely personal; and the Knowledge of it to be obtain’d by personal Consideration, independently of any Guides, Teachers, or Authority.” In the forefront of this group was John Rogers, whose hostility to the deist was articulate and compulsive. At least it drove him into a position seemingly at odds with the spirit if not the law of English toleration. He urged, for example, that those like Collins be prosecuted in a civil court for a persuasion “which is manifestly subversive of all Order and Polity, and can no more consist with civil, than with religious, Society.”[25]

Thereupon followed charge and countercharge. New gladiators, as different from each other as the nonconformist divine Samuel Chandler and the deist Thomas Chubb, entered the arena on behalf of Collins. For all the dogmatic volubility of Rogers, orthodoxy appeared beleaguered. The moderate clergy, who witnessed this exchange, became alarmed; they feared that in the melee the very heart of English toleration would be threatened by the contenders, all of whom spoke as its champion. Representative of such moderation was Nathanael Marshall, who wished if not to end the debate, then at least to contain its ardor. As canon of Windsor, he supported the condition of a state religion protected by the magistrate but he worried over the extent of the latter’s prerogative and power. Certainly he was more liberal than Rogers in his willingness to entertain professions of religious diversity. Yet he straitjacketed his liberalism when he denied responsible men the right to attack laws, both civil and canonical, with “ludicrous Insult” or “with Buffoonery and Banter, Ridicule or Sarcastick Irony.”[26]

Once again Collins met the challenge. In A Discourse concerning Ridicule and Irony he devoted himself to undermining the moral, the intellectual, and practical foundations of that one restraint which Marshall would impose upon the conduct of any religious quarrel. He had little difficulty in achieving his objective. His adversary’s stand was visibly vulnerable and for several reasons. It was too conscious of the tug-of-war between the deist and Rogers, too arbitrary in its choice of prohibition. It was, in truth, strained by a choice between offending the establishment and yet rejecting clerical extremism.[27] Moreover, Collins had this time an invisible partner, a superior thinker against whom he could test his own ideas and from whom he could borrow others. For the Discourse concerning Ridicule and Irony is largely a particularization, a crude but powerful reworking of Shaftesbury’s Sensus Communis: An Essay on the Freedom of Wit and Humour.

Supported by Shaftesbury’s urbane generalization, Collins laughed openly at the egocentricity and blindness of Marshall’s timid zealotry. Indeed, he wryly found his orthodox opponent guilty of the very crime with which he, as a subversive, was charged. It seemed to him, he said,

Collins’s technique continued its ironic ambiguity, reversal, and obliquity. Under a tone of seeming innocence and good will, he credited his adversaries with an enviable capacity for satiric argument. In comradely fashion, he found precedent for his own rhetorical practice through a variety of historical and biblical analogies. But even more important for a contemporary audience, he again resorted to the device of invoking the authority provided by some of the most respected names in the Anglican Establishment. The use of satire in religious topics, hence, was manifest in “the Writings of our most eminent Divines,” especially those of Stillingfleet, “our greatest controversial Writer” (pp. 4-5).

With all the outrageous assurance of a self-invited guest, the deist had seated himself at the table of his vainly protesting Christian hosts (whom he insisted on identifying as brethren). “In a word,” he said so as to obviate debate, “the Opinions and Practices of Men in all Matters, and especially in Matters of Religion, are generally so absurd and ridiculous that it is impossible for them not to be the Subjects of Ridicule” (p. 19). Thus adopting Juvenal’s concept of satiric necessity (“difficile est saturam non scribere”), Collins here set forth the thesis and rationale of his enemy. There was a kind of impudent virtuosity in his “proofs,” in his manner of drawing a large, impressive cluster of names into his ironic net and making all of them appear to be credible witnesses in his defense. Even Swift, amusingly compromised as “one of the greatest Droles that ever appear’d upon the Stage of the World” (p. 39), was brought to the witness box as evidence of the privileged status to which satiric writing was entitled. Collins enforced erudition with cool intelligence so that contemptuous amusement is present on every page of his Discourse.

Beneath his jeers and his laughter there was a serious denunciation of any kind of intellectual restraint, however mild-seeming; beneath his verbal pin-pricking there was conversely an exoneration of man’s right to inquire, to profess, and to persuade. Beneath his jests and