Roger de Coverley's house, that the knight's Toryism
grew with the miles that separated him from London:

'In all our journey from London to his house we did not so much as bait
at a Whig inn; or if by chance the coachman stopped at a wrong place,
one of Sir Roger's servants would ride up to his master full speed, and
whisper to him that the master of the house was against such an one in
the last election. This often betrayed us into hard beds and bad cheer;
for we were not so inquisitive about the inn as the innkeeper; and
provided our landlord's principles were sound did not take any notice of
the staleness of his provisions. This I found still the more
inconvenient, because the better the host was, the worse generally were
his accommodations; the fellow knowing very well that those who were his
friends would take up with coarse diet and hard lodging. For these
reasons, all the while I was upon the road, I dreaded entering into an
house of anyone that Sir Roger had applauded for an honest man.'[8]

Against the party zeal of female politicians Addison indulges frequently
in humorous sallies. He assures them that it gives an ill-natured cast
to the eye, and flushes the cheeks worse than brandy. Party rage, he
says, is a male vice, and is altogether repugnant 'to the softness, the
modesty, and those other endearing qualities which are natural to the
fair sex.'

'When I have seen a pretty mouth uttering calumnies and invectives, what
would I not have given to have stopt it? how have I been troubled to see
some of the finest features in the world grow pale and tremble with
party rage. Camilla is one of the greatest beauties in the British
nation, and yet values herself more upon being the virago of one party
than upon being the toast of both. The dear creature about a week ago
encountered the fierce and beautiful Penthesilea across a tea-table; but
in the height of her anger, as her hand chanced to shake with the
earnestness of the dispute, she scalded her fingers, and spilt a dish of
tea upon her petticoat. Had not this accident broke off the debate,
nobody knows where it would have ended.'

The coffee-houses in which men aired their wit and discussed the news of
the day were wholly dominated by party. 'A Whig,' says De Foe, 'will no
more go to the Cocoa Tree or Ozinda's than a Tory will be seen at the
coffee-house of St. James's.' Swift declared that the Whig and Tory
animosity infected even the dogs and cats. It was