The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 1/Conclusion

by Thomas Sheridan

CONCLUSION.

FROM the foregoing memoirs may be drawn the true character of Swift; not on the slender ground of opinion, but the solid foundation of facts.

He was, from his earliest days, as he describes himself in one of his poems,

Addicted to no sort of vice.

Wine, women, and gaming, the three great seducers of youth, had never the least influence over him. He has been often heard to say, that he never was drunk in his life: there have been strong reasons assigned for supposing that he never had any criminal commerce with the fair sex: and though for a short time, during his residence in London, he fell in with the fashion of playing for trifles, yet he wholly left it off when he appeared in Ireland in the character of the dean of St. Patrick's.

Virtus est vitium fugere——

is an old adage; and the bosom that is free from vice, is finely prepared for the reception of virtue. The soil in which no weeds sprout up, will reward the cultivator with plenteous crops of useful grain. Accordingly we find, from his first appearance in the world, he was possessed of three of the cardinal virtues, justice, temperance, and fortitude, in an eminent degree. His prudence, indeed, with regard to worldly views, might often be called in question; and sometimes he might be hurried away from listening to her sober dictates, by the impetuosity of a warm imagination, or allured by the sportiveness of fancy: yet on all important occasions, he showed that he had no common share of that virtue, so necessary to the right direction of all the others. In the practice of these higher virtues, did he constantly live, even with a stoical severity; and none of the great characters of antiquity, were, on that account, more entitled to our esteem and admiration.

But to conciliate the good will and love of mankind, qualities of a gentler sort are necessary, the virtues of humanity; such as friendship, liberality, charity, good nature, &c. all which he was known to possess in a high degree by his intimate friends, though an opposite character of him prevailed in the world. I have already accounted for this in the preface, from a peculiar cast of his mind, which made him not only conceal these qualities from the publick eye, but often disguise them under the appearance of their contraries. I shall now show how this peculiarity first grew upon him. We have already seen during what a length of years his proud spirit groaned under a state of dependance on his relations for a scanty and precarious support. Upon inquiring into the history of his progenitors, he found that his grandfather had been reduced from a state of affluence, to extreme poverty, by the most cruel persecution of the fanaticks in the time of Cromwell. To this he imputed all his own sufferings, as well as those of his family; which fixed such a rooted hatred in him to them and their principles, as he took every opportunity of manifesting by his writings, whenever occasion offered, during the whole course of his life. This it was which gave him such a detestation of hypocrisy, a vice generally laid to their charge, as to make him run into the opposite extreme. In which respect he was certainly highly blamable, as he was himself a teacher of that religion, which enjoins its professors to Let their light so shine before men, that they might see their good works, &c. Especially as he stood in so conspicuous a point of view, from the superiority of his talents, that his example might have been of the greatest benefit, toward supporting the cause of religion and virtue; as, on the other hand, infidelity and vice gloried not a little, on the supposed enlistment of so great a name under their banner. It was this strangely assumed character, this new species of hypocrisy reversed, as lord Bolingbroke justly termed it, which prevented his appearing in that amiable light, to which he was entitled from the benevolence of his heart, except to a chosen few. In his friendships he was warm, zealous, constant: and perhaps no man ever contracted such a number with so judicious and happy a selection. We find him every where extolled for his preeminence in this first and rarest of virtues, by his numerous correspondents; among whom were many the most distinguished of that age for talents and worth. Mr. Pope, in his preface to Homer, acknowledges in the strongest terms his obligation to him for his uncommon zeal in promoting the subscription to that work: and well he might, as there is good reason to believe that the sum procured by his solicitation was not less than a thousand pounds. We have seen with what ardour he engaged in a similar office for his friend Prior; for though he had at that time little interest in Ireland, yet, by the utmost exertion of that little, he remitted to him between two and three hundred pounds, collected by him for subscriptions to his works; as appears by receipts in my possession. Many instances of a similar kind have been casually brought to light, in spite of his endeavours to conceal them. His constancy in friendship was such, that he was never known to break any connexion of that sort, till his faculties were impaired in the decline of life, except in the case of Steele; wherein he was perfectly justified from the ingratitude and insolence of his behaviour toward him. Indeed his notions of friendship were so exalted, that he wished it might not be confined to the present life; for he says in one of his letters to Pope — "I have often wished that God Almighty would be so easy to the weakness of mankind, as to let old friends be acquainted in another state; and if I were to write a Utopia for Heaven, that would be one of my schemes."

To his good nature and tenderness of heart, many testimonies have been given by those who best knew him, in the several quotations already made from the letters of Addison, Pope, Arbuthnot, Gay, and many others. Addison in particular says, that he honoured him more for that one good quality, than all his more shining talents. Captain Charlton, in his letter to him, says, "I am sensible how intruding it may appear in me to trouble you with what I think; but you have an unlucky quality, which exposes you to the forwardness of those that love you; I mean good nature. From which, though I did not always suspect you guilty of it, I now promise myself an easy pardon." I have here quoted this passage, the rather, because the latter part of it is a confirmation of what I have advanced with regard to the pains he took to hide those good qualities he possessed, which were discoverable only on a closer intimacy. But as the quality of good nature is that part of his character least likely to gain credit, on account of the general prevalence of the contrary opinion, I shall here enumerate some of the more striking instances of his great sensibility and tenderness of heart, which have been dispersed in different parts of this work. Of this the most unequivocal proofs have been given in his letters to Stella, giving an account of the stabbing of Mr. Harley by Guiscard: in his behaviour to the duchess of Hamilton, on the fatal event of her lord's death: in his affecting account of the illness and death of poor Harrison: in his weeping at the funeral of his servant Magee: in his bursting into tears upon seeing the furniture taken down in Dr. Sheridan's parlour previous to his removal into the country: in all his letters to the doctor when Stella's life was despaired of: and in all the tender expressions of the warmest affection dispersed throughout his Journal to Stella, which are manifestly the effusions of a most feeling heart. Many more instances, were it necessary, might be adduced to the same effect, but I shall add only one, from an authority which cannot be doubted; I mean miss Vanhomrigh's; who, in the midst of that bitterness of soul occasioned by his great neglect of her, begins one of her letters in the following manner. "Believe me it is with the utmost regret that I now complain to you, because I know your good nature such, that you cannot see any human creature miserable, without being sensibly touched."

Nor was it in these articles only that the world were so mistaken in his character; from the same cause proceeded many other charges against him, all equally ill founded. He has been represented as a man of great ambition, pride, avarice, and misanthropy. Now let us see what foundation there was for any of these charges. And first as to ambition.

This is generally considered as so powerful a passion, that it impels those who are under its dominion, to seek its gratification by all means, just or unjust. From this species of ambition, never mortal was more free than Swift. How little he was inclined to make use even of the common allowable modes of rising in the world, or to gain preferment by any solicitation on his part, may be seen by the following extracts from his letters to the archbishop of Dublin, written at a time when he was in the highest favour with the people then in power. "I humbly thank your grace for the good opinion you are pleased to have of me, and for your advice, which seems to be wholly grounded on it. As to the first which relates to my fortune, I shall never be able to make myself believed how indifferent I am about it. I sometimes have the pleasure of making that of others, and I fear it is too great a pleasure to be a virtue, at least in me . . . . It is my maxim to leave great ministers to do as they please; and if I cannot distinguish myself enough, by being useful in such a way, as becomes a man of conscience and honour, I can do no more; for I never will solicit for myself, though I often do for others." And in another place he says, "I know nothing of promises of any thing intended for myself, but, I thank God, I am not very warm in my expectations, and know courts too well, to be surprised at disappointments; which, however, I should have no great reason to fear, if I gave my thoughts any trouble that way; which, without affectation, I do not, although I cannot expect to be believed when I say so."

Governed as he was by such maxims as these, is there any one at all acquainted with the world, who could suppose that he should rise to any high rank in it ? Nay did he himself ever seem to expect it? Perhaps there was no man of his time who had so many, and such fair opportunities of advancing himself to the highest dignities of the church, could he in the least relax from his principles. Upon his return to sir William Temple, after having resigned his living in Ireland, in order to attend his summons, he had the strongest claim upon him for immediate preferment; and there can be no doubt, had he pressed it, that the promise made to sir William by the king, would have been performed. But he had too much generosity of soul, to urge this at a time, when the ill state of his friend's health, required the constant attendance of such a companion to alleviate his sufferings: and when his death had released him from the benevolent task, we have seen how coldly he pursued the claim he had on king William, and how soon he quitted the pursuit, as his high spirit could not brook the attendance necessary to succeed at court. When he went over to Ireland with lord Berkeley, though he had then no fortune, nor prospect of provision from, any other quarter, yet, upon his breach of promise, he broke from him with marks of the highest resentment. He was afterward in high favour with the leading men in the whiggish ministry, who made overtures to him of the most advantageous kind, if he would assist them in their designs; but when he found their plan was to undermine the church, which he justly considered as one main pillar of the state; and to promote the private interests of a junto, at the expense of the community; he not only quitted them entirely, but published several pieces written expressly to counteract their measures; and this too, long before he was even personally known to any leaders of the other party: so that his conduct could have proceeded only from disinterested motives.

During the last years of queen Anne, from the authentick account given of the part he sustained in the political drama of that time, sure never man had a more clear open way before him to the summit of preferment. He was the prop and pillar of that administration; the sole confidential man, without whose participation and advice, nothing of moment was undertaken, and the chief instrument in carrying their deliberations into execution. The bosom friend of Oxford, and equally beloved by his rival Bolingbroke. Had he been a man of intrigue, what fairer opportunities could he have wished for? Nay, had he only been silent with regard to certain points; had he followed the lead of the ministry themselves, by acquiescing in those measures of the queen, which they found they could not prevail on her to change, his success had been infallible. But, during that critical time, he seems to have left all idea of self out of the question. He took a decided part in pursuing such measures as he thought most conducive to the publick interests, let who would be disobliged at it; and accordingly incurred the queen's displeasure to such a degree, as to render hopeless all expectations of favours from her. He foresaw the consequences of such a conduct, and says, in his Journal to Stella, he knew it was the sure way to send him back to his willows, adding, with great indifference, — "But I care not."

From all this it appears, that he never was in the smallest degree infected with that species of ambition, which seeks to attain its end per fas et nefas: on the contrary, it has been shown that he declined taking the fair and honest steps, consistent with the nicest principles, which lay before him to promotion; nor would he even sacrifice to it the smallest part of his delicacy, so far as to ask any favour for himself, from those on whom he had conferred the highest obligations. But on no occasion did he show more clearly, how little sway ambition had over his mind, when it interfered even with the most refined delicacy of sentiment, than by accepting of lord Oxford's invitation to accompany him in his retirement after his fall, and refusing the presing solicitations of the new minister, backed by the queen's favourite, to assist them in carrying their new measures into effect; though, at the same time, they were the very measures that had been the object of all his views, from the time that he had entered into the political line.

And yet he had ambition to a high degree, but it was of the purest and noblest kind. He was ambitious of forming a distinguished character in life, by exerting to the utmost those talents that God had bestowed on him, for the good of mankind, and by a preeminence in virtue. To answer this end, conscious of his strength, he relied solely upon himself, and was little solicitous about external aid. In one of his letters to Pope, he says, — "Because I cannot be a great lord, I would acquire what is a kind of subsidium; I would endeavour that my betters should seek me, by the merit of something distinguishable, instead of my seeking them." How successful he was in attaining his end, has been already shown. We have seen in what a high point of light he stood, during the latter years of queen Anne; and what homage was paid him by all the great of both sexes, when he was only a petty vicar of Laracor. But this was nothing in comparison of the honours that afterward awaited him, when a whole kingdom looked up to him as their first and greatest man; when the humble title of dean, dignified by his wearing it, with a The^[1] before it, conferred by the general voice, made all other titles sink degraded: when at a meeting of all the nobles, with the viceroy on his throne, earls, viscounts, barons, archbishops, bishops, and judges, shrunk into pigmies, like the assembly described by Milton in the Pandemonium, upon the entrance of The dean; all eyes being turned on him alone, all voices employed in his praise: and when that kingdom itself, by nature great, but rendered little by oppression, was scarce heard of in Europe, but as the place of his nativity and residence. What titles, what dignities conferred on him by the monarchs of the earth, could have raised him to such a height, as that true nobility of soul, bestowed on him by the King of kings?

To suppose that he was not conscious of his preeminence over others, or that he was not pleased with the homage paid him on that account, would be to suppose him not to be a man. But whoever impute pride to him in consequence of this, charge him unjustly. I mean when the word is taken in its bad sense; for there is a virtuous pride, as well as a laudable ambition: and his pride, like his ambition, was of the noblest kind. That it was viewed in another light by the world, was owing to the wrong judgment formed by the bulk of mankind, who seldom penetrate farther than the surface, and are governed by appearances. But Swift looked deeply into the nature of things, and estimated their value, not by the standard of opinion or fashion, but that of right reason. The maxim he laid down, and always maintained in the face of the great, was, "That a man of genius and talents, was a character superiour to that of a lord; and the man of virtue, to that of the man of wealth." Is there any one who will dispute the truth of this in theory, however different the practice may be, from the corruptions of mankind? But Swift was not content with vainly speculating upon this point, in the manner of other writers; he determined that his conduct should be conformable to his principles. As he wanted not the assistance of the noble or the rich, he sought not their acquaintance; and if any were desirous of his, the first overtures must come from them, and their advances be in proportion to their rank; expecting, as he himself expresses it, more from a duke or a duchess, than from those of an inferiour class. To this, numbers of the first order of nobility conformed, acknowledging the justice of his claim; and so high was the reputation of Swift, and his character so distinguished from the rest of the world, that some of the most lofty ones among them, sacrificed their pride to the vanity of being numbered among his acquaintance. But it was only to the vainglorious, who were proud of the accidental superiority which their birth gave them, that he assumed this behaviour. To his equals, among which number he reckoned all men of genius and virtue, he put on no airs of superiority, but lived with them on the most friendly and familiar footing. His inferiours, he always treated with complacency and good humour, unless they happened to show themselves to be either knaves or fools, and to them he was not sparing of his correction. In mixed societies, according to his own principle, he expected the same respect to be shown him, as is usually paid to persons of the highest rank: nor was he often disappointed in this, as there was something so commanding in his aspect, expressive of the native superiority of his mind, that it struck the beholders with awe, and produced that reverence from the heart, which is only shown by external ceremonies to artificial greatness. But among his intimates, this deportment was entirely thrown aside; where he indulged the utmost familiarity, giving free scope to the vagaries of fancy, often to a childish playfulness of mirth. In short his pride, if by that name it must be called, was of the same kind as that of admiral Villars, described by Sully, as arising from that inborn noble elevation of mind, which, in great souls, is only a perception of their own worth, without the least mixture of mean vanity, or the intoxication of self-love.

The charge of avarice against him, is, if possible, less founded than any of the others; for never man was more free from that vice, till it came upon him with the other infirmities of old age, as appears by the whole tenour of his conduct. Many instances of his liberality, and unbounded charity, have been already produced; I shall now mention some others, which will show how little place the love of money had in his heart. He allowed Mrs. Dingley a pension of fifty-two pounds per annum, which, with her own annuity of twenty-eight, made up a yearly income of eighty pounds; a very handsome support for a single woman in those days. But this he insisted should be kept an entire secret between themselves, always pretending that he only acted as her agent for money which she had in the funds. And the better to deceive those about him, when she has sent for any part of this allowance, he would sometimes pretend to be in a passion, and cry out, "Pox take this woman, she is always plagueing me for money; tell her I have none to send her; I have had no remittances from London this half year." And then, cooling by degrees, he would send her the money by way of advance, and take her receipt accordingly. By this way of proceeding, those of his greatest intimacy were deceived; nor was it till after his faculties were impaired, that he discovered by accident that these payments came out of his own purse. Acting as he did with such delicacy in conferring favours, it is to be supposed that many other instances of his liberality have never come to light.

Of all the trials of an avaricious disposition, nothing is so likely to make it show itself in the most glaring colours, as some considerable unexpected loss. To this test was Swift severely put in two remarkable occurrences in different periods of his life. The first was in 1712, before he was made dean of St. Patrick's. He had deposited near four hundred pounds in the hands of his friend Stratford, which was all the money he then possessed in the world. An account was brought him that Stratford was broke. What effect this had on him he thus describes in his Journal to Stella. "I came home reflecting a little; nothing concerned me but MD. I called all my philosophy and religion up; and, I thank God, it did not keep me awake beyond my usual time above a quarter of an hour."

Of the other he gives the following account, in a letter to Mr. Worrall, dated Quilca, June 11, 1725.

"Your letter has informed me of what I did not expect, that I am just even with the world; for, if my debts were paid, I think I should not have fifty pounds beside my goods. I have not railed, nor fretted, nor lost my sleep, nor stomach, I thank God. My greatest trouble is, that some friends, whom I intended to make easy during their lives, and the publick, to which I bequeathed the reversion, will be disappointed." And in another to Dr. Sheridan, of the same date, he says, "You are to know that by Mr. Pratt's ruin I lose only twelve hundred and fifty pounds, which he owes me. So that I am now, as near as I can compute, not worth one farthing but my goods. I am therefore just to begin the world. I should value it less, if some friends and the publick were not to suffer; and I am ashamed to see myself so little concerned on account of the two latter. For, as to myself, I have learned to consider what is left, and not what is lost. — But enough of this."

Such a perfect resignation and composure of mind on such trying occasions, must surely clear him from all imputations of avarice; and it is evident from the above passages, that he valued money no farther than as it might enable him to be useful to others. For, with regard to all expenses relative to himself, he was more than frugal; as he grudged every superfluity in his domestick economy, in order that he might have it more in his power to gratify his charitable and liberal propensities. And here we have a strong proof given how far he had indulged himself in that way, when we find that in the year 1725, twelve years after his being in possession of his deanery, he had saved only so small a sum as 1250l. But nothing can demonstrate more clearly the little value he at all times set upon money, than his scorning to receive any payment for his works, even when his circumstances were at the lowest. In these two great articles of preferment and fortune, he seems to have adopted the maxims, and followed the example of his noble disinterested friend, sir William Temple; who never solicited any employment, nor received the smallest reward for all the great services he did the nation. But this conduct was certainly more meritorious in Swift, as sir William inherited an easy independent fortune, and Swift was born to no patrimony.

The last charge, as before mentioned against Swift, and which has gained most general credit, is that of perfect misanthropy; and this is chiefly founded upon his supposed satire on human nature, in the picture he has drawn of the yahoos. This opinion has been so universally adopted by almost all who have read Gulliver's Travels, that to controvert it would be supposed to act in opposition to the common sense and reason of mankind. And yet I will undertake to overthrow it, by appealing to that very reason and common sense, upon which they suppose it to be founded. I shall only beg of my reader that he would lay aside for a while any preposession he may have entertained of that kind, and candidly examine what I shall advance in support of the opposite side of the question; and if he finds the arguments there laid down unanswerable, that he will not obstinately persist in errour, by whatever numbers it may be supported, but ingenuously yield to conviction. The position I mean to prove is, that the whole apologue of the Houyhnhnms and Yahoos, far from being intended as a debasement of human nature, if rightly understood, is evidently designed to show in what the true dignity and perfection of man's nature consists, and to point out the way by which it may be attained.

In order to this, let us first see with what design the fourth book of the Travels was written. In the first three books he has given various views of the different vices, follies, and absurdities of mankind, not without some mixture of good qualities, of virtue and wisdom, though in a small proportion to the others, as they are to be found in life. In his last book, he meant to exhibit two new portraits; one, of pure unmixed vice; the other, of perfect unadulterated virtue. In order that the native deformity of the one, might excite in us a deeper abhorrence of evil; and the resplendent charms of the other, allure us to what is good. To represent these to us in sensible forms, he clothes the one with the body of a man; the other, with that of a horse. Between these two he divides the qualities of the human mind, taking away the rational soul from the Yahoo, and transferring it to the Houyhnhnm. To the Yahoo he leaves all the passions and evil propensities of man's nature, to be exerted without any check or control, as in the case of all other animals. The rational soul in the Houyhnhnm, acts unerringly as by instinct; it intuitively perceives what is right, and necessarily acts up to the dictates of reason. The Yahoo, as here described, is a creature of fancy, the product of the author's brain, which never had any thing similar to it upon earth. It has no resemblance to man, but in the make of its body, and the vicious propensities of its nature. It differs from him wholly in all the characteristical marks which distinguish man from the rest of the animal world. It has not a ray of reason, it has no speech, and it goes, like other quadrupeds, upon all four. Now, as reason, speech, and walking upright on two legs, are the universal properties of the human race, even in the most savage nations, which peculiarly mark their superiority over brutes, how, in the name of Heaven, has it come to pass, that by almost all who have read Gulliver, the Yahoos have been considered as beings of the human species, and the odious picture drawn of them, as intended to vilify and debase our nature? But it is evident from the whole account given of this creature of his fancy, that the author intended it should be considered as a mere beast, of a new species; for he has not only deprived it of all the characteristical distinctions of man before recited, but has superadded some material differences even in his bodily organs and powers, sufficient to distinguish it from the human race. He says, — "They climbed high trees as nimbly as a squirrel, for they had strong extended claws before and behind, terminating in sharp points, and hooked." Now it is well known, that the human nails, when suffered to grow to any considerable length, never assume that shape, and unless pared, disable the hands from discharging their office^[2]. He says in another place, — "They are prodigiously nimble from their infancy." This is directly opposite to the nature of the children of men, who are the most helpless in infancy, and the slowest in arriving at any degree of strength or agility, of all living creatures. Indeed it was necessary to the author's end, that of showing the vicious qualities of man's nature in their pure unmixed state, that the creature in whom they were placed should be a mere brute, governed as all others are by an irresistible instinct, without any control from a superiour faculty; and accordingly he seems to have thrown in these additional circumstances to distinguish it from any thing human. At the same time it was also necessary to give this creature the human form, in order to bring the lesson home to man, by having the vicious part of his nature reflected back to him from one in his own shape; for in the form of any other creature, he would not think himself at all concerned in it. Yet it is on account of its bodily form only, represented as it is in so hideous a light, that the pride of man was alarmed, and made him blind to the author's design, so as to charge him with an intention of degrading and vilifying the whole of human nature below that of brutes. I have already shown that the whole of human nature has no concern in what is related of this creature, as he is entirely deprived of all the characteristick properties of man which distinguish him from, and elevate him above all other animals. I have also shown, that even his body, however resembling in outward form, is not the body of a man, but of a beast. In the first place it is prone, like all other beasts, which never was the case in any human creature.

Os homini sublime dedit, cœlumque tueri Jussit.

In the next, he has long hooked claws, which enable him to climb the highest trees with the nimbleness of a squirrel, and to dig holes in the earth for his habitation. Their faces too, as in some other tribes of animals, were all alike, being thus described: "The face of this animal indeed was flat and broad, the nose depressed, the lips large, and the mouth wide." When we consider too, that these features were never enlivened by the rational soul, nor the countenance lighted up by the benevolent sensations in man, which constitute the chief beauty of the human face, but on the contrary were continually distorted by a variety of malevolent passions, we must conclude with Gulliver, that such a man beast must be the most odious animal that ever crawled upon the face of the earth; and that his description of it, disgusting as it is, is not in the least exaggerated. At first sight they had so little resemblance to any thing human, that Gulliver mistook them for some new species of cattle belonging to the inhabitants. After having given a description of them as they appeared to him when he first saw a number of them near him, where he lay concealed behind a thicket, in order to mark their form more distinctly, he says, "So that thinking I had seen enough, full of contempt and aversion, I got up and pursued the beaten road, hoping it might direct me to the cabin of some Indian. I had not got far, when I met one of these creatures, full in my way, and coming up directly to me. The ugly monster, when he saw me, distorted several ways every feature of his visage, and started as at an object he had never seen before; then approaching nearer, lifted up his fore paw, whether out of curiosity or mischief, I could not tell: but I drew my hanger, and gave him a good blow with the flat side of it, for I durst not strike with the edge, fearing the inhabitants might be provoked against me, if they should come to know that I had killed or maimed any of their cattle." And it was not till afterward, when he had an opportunity of examining one of them more closely in his kennel, that he perceived its resemblance to the human figure. But it may be asked, to what end has such an odious animal been produced to view? The answer is obvious: The design of the author, in the whole of this apologue, is, to place before the eyes of man a picture of the two different parts of his frame, detached from each other, in order that he may the better estimate the true value of each, and see the necessity there is that the one should have an absolute command over the other. In your merely animal capacity, says he to man, without reason to guide you, and actuated only by a blind instinct, I will show you that you would be degraded below the beasts of the field. That very form, that very body, you are now so proud of, as giving you such a superiority over all other animals, I will show you owe all their beauty, and all their greatest powers, to their being actuated by a rational soul. Let that be withdrawn, let the body be inhabited by the mind of a brute, let it be prone as theirs are, and suffered like theirs to take its natural course, without any assistance from art, you would in that case be the most deformed, as to your external appearance, the most detestable of all creatures. And with regard to your internal frame, filled with all the evil dispositions, and malignant passions of mankind, you would be the most miserable of beings, living in a continued state of internal vexation, and of hatred and warfare with each other.

On the other hand, I will show another picture of an animal endowed with a rational soul, and acting uniformly up to the dictates of right reason. Here you may see collected all the virtues, all the great qualities, which dignify man's nature, and constitute the happiness of his life. What is the natural inference to be drawn from these two different representations? Is it not evidently a lesson to mankind, warning them not to suffer the animal part to be predominant in them, lest they resemble the vile Yahoo, and fall into vice and misery; but to emulate the noble and generous Houyhnhnm, by cultivating the rational faculty to the utmost; which will lead them to a life of virtue and happiness.

Is it not very extraordinary that mankind in general should so readily acknowledge their resemblance to the Yahoo, whose similitude to man consists only in the make of its body, and the evil dispositions of its mind; and that they should see no resemblance to themselves, in a creature possessed of their chief characteristical marks, reason and speech, and endowed with every virtue, with every noble quality, which constitute the dignity of man's nature, which distinguish and elevate the human above the brute species? Shall they arraign the author of writing a malignant satire against human nature, when reduced to its most abject brutal state, and wholly under the dominion of the passions; and shall they give him no credit for the exalted view in which he has placed the nobler part of our nature, when wholly under the direction of right reason? Or are mankind so stupid, as in an avowed fable, to stop at the outside, the vehicle, without diving into the concealed moral, which is the object of all fable? Do they really take the Yahoo for a man, because it has the form of a man; and the Houyhnhnm for a horse, because it has the form of a horse? But we need not wonder that the bulk of makind should fall into this errour, when we find men pretending to the utmost depths of wisdom, avowing themselves of the same mind. The learned Mr. Harris, in his Philological Inquiries, has the following passage: "Misanthropy is so dangerous a thing, and goes so far in sapping the very foundations of morality and religion, that I esteem the last part of Swift's Gulliver (that I mean relative to his Houyhnhnms and Yahoos) to be a worse book to peruse, than those which we are forbid, as the most flagitious and obscene. One absurdity in this author (a wretched philosopher, though a great wit) is well worth remarking — in order to render the nature of man odious, and the nature of beasts amiable, he is compelled to give human characters to his beasts, and beastly characters to his men: so that we are to admire the beasts, not for being beasts, but amiable men; and to detest the men, not for being men, but detestable beasts." I believe so strange an interpretation of an author's meaning, never fell from the pen of any commentator. He first assumes that the end proposed by Swift in this fable, is, to render the nature of man odious, and the nature of beasts amiable. This surely was a most unaccountable design in any human creature; and before it can be admitted, it ought to be first proved that Swift was of a beastly disposition, which engaged him on the side of his fellow brutes. And if this were his object, no mortal ever used more unlikely means to attain it, and no one ever more completely failed of his end. By representing a beast in a human form, without any one characteristical mark of man, he could hardly expect to render human nature itself odious: and by exhibiting so strange a phenomenon as the soul of man actuating a quadruped, and regulating his conduct by the rules of right reason, he could as little hope to render the nature of irrational beasts more amiable. And accordingly I believe no mortal ever had a worse opinion of human nature, from his description of the Yahoos; nor a better of the brute creation, from that of the Houyhnhnms. And all the ill effect produced by this fable, has been turned on the author himself, by raising the general indignation of mankind against him, from a mistaken view of his intention: so that the writer of the above remarks, need not have prohibited the reading of that part of Gulliver with such solemnity, as it never did, nor never can make one proselyte to misanthropy, whereof he seems so apprehensive; but on the contrary may be productive of great good, from the moral so evidently to be deduced from it, as has already been made appear.

In one paragraph of the above quoted passage, the author, wrapped up in the pride of philosophy, seems to look down upon Swift with sovereign contempt; where he says, — "One absurdity in this author (a wretched philosopher, though a great wit) is well worth remarking," &c. But it has been already shown, that the absurdity belongs to the commentator, not to the author; and it will be difficult to persuade the world, that Swift is not one of the greatest adepts in the first philosophy, the science of mankind; of which he has given such ample proofs throughout his works, and more particularly in this very book, so superciliously decried by this soi disant philosopher; and which will be of more real benefit to mankind, than the labours of a thousand such writers as the author of Philological Inquiries, employed about splendid trifles, and useless metaphysicks.

Another writer of no small eminence has attacked Swift with great virulence on the same account. In a pamphlet of Dr. Young's, entitled Conjectures on Original Composition, there is the following passage: "If so, O Gulliver! dost thou not shudder at thy brother Lucian's vultures hovering o'er thee? Shudder on! they cannot shock thee more, than decency has been shocked by thee. How have thy Houyhnhnms thrown thy judgment from its seat, and laid thy imagination in the mire? In what ordure hast thou dipped thy pencil? What a monster hast thou made of the

Human face divine?Milton.

This writer has so satirized human nature, as to give a demonstration in himself, that it deserves to be satirized." In answer to which I shall address him in his own way — O doctor Young, how has thy prejudice thrown thy judgment from its seat, and let thy imagination hurry thee beyond all bounds of common sense! In what black composition of spleen and envy hast thou dipped thy pen! What a monstrous character hast thou given of

One of the noblest men
That ever lived in the tide of times.Shakspeare.

Thou hast so satirized this great man, as to show that thou thyself deservest the utmost severity of satire. After such a string of poetical epiphonemas, what is the charge which he brings against Swift? It is all contained in these words — "What a monster hast thou made, of the human face divine!" Now as Dr. Young himself, and all the world must have allowed, that the human face can have no claim to the epithet of divine, unless when animated by the divine particle within us, how can he be said to make a monstrous representation of the human face divine, who first supposes the divine part to be withdrawn, which entitles it to that appellation, and substitutes in its place the mind of a brute? Must not the human countenance in this case lose all that beauty and expression, which it derives from the soul's looking out at the eyes, and animating every feature? On the contrary, what more deformed or shocking object can be exhibited to view, than the human face distorted by all the vile and malevolent passions belonging to man's nature? Let any one reflect what sensations he has had on the sight of an idiot, an outrageous madman, or one possessed by ungovernable fury, extreme hatred, or implacable revenge, and he must allow that the picture Swift gives of the Yahoo face, always expressive of some one or other of similar passions, however hideous it may be, is yet a just likeness.

What then is the meaning of the general clamour raised against Swift, unless it be thought criminal in him to suppose it possible, even in a fable, that the human frame, upon which we value ourselves so highly, might be the receptacle of a brutal soul? I should not wonder if such men should arraign the Almighty also, for having really effected this in the case of Nebuchadnezzar; or exhibiting another instance of it to our view, without a miracle, in that of Peter the wild man, caught in the woods of Germany; in whom was to be found a perfect image of that man beast which Swift supposes in his Yahoo^[3]. Nor should I be surprised if they who value themselves chiefly on their outward form, should mutter complaints against their Creator, for giving certain animals so near a resemblance to them, as is to be found in some species of baboons, but more particularly in the mantiger; who not only is formed exactly like man in his bodily organs, but, like him too, often walks erect upon two legs, with a staff in his hand, sits down upon chairs, and has the same deportment in many other points.

But while they so squeamishly take offence at this nonentity, this chimera of the brain, does it never occur to them that there really exist thousands and ten thousands of their own species, in different parts of this peopled earth, infinitely more detestable than the Yahoos. In whatever odious light their form has been portrayed, can it excite higher disgust than that of the Hottentot, decorated with guts, which are used for food when in a state of putrefaction; and who loads his head with a mixture of stinking grease and soot, to make a secure lodgement for swarms of the most filthy vermin? or than those savages, who slash, mangle, and deform, with a variety of horrid figures, the human face divine, in order to strike a greater terrour into their enemies? Are there any actions attributed to the miserable Yahoo so diabolical as are constantly practised in some of these savage nations, by exposing their children, murdering their parents in their old age, and roasting and eating their captives taken in war, with many other abominations? In all which instances we see, that human reason, in its state of depravity, is productive of infinitely worse consequences, than can proceed from a total deprivation of it. This lesson Gulliver has taken care to inculcate, where his master Houyhnhnm, after having received an account from him of the manners and customs of the Europeans, makes the following observation: "That although he hated the Yahoos of this country, yet he no more blamed them for their odious qualities, than he did a gnnayh (a bird of prey) for its cruelty, or a sharp stone for cutting his hoof. But when a creature, pretending to reason, could be capable of such enormities, he dreaded lest the corruption of that faculty, might be worse than brutality itself."

It may be said that the instances of depravity above quoted, are only to be found among savages, whose minds, unenlightened by knowledge, are governed wholly by their brutal appetites and passions; and that a true picture of human nature is only to be taken from the more civilized states. Let us see, therefore, whether in our own dear country, while we boast so much of the extraordinary lights drawn from philosophy, and the divine illumination of the Gospel, we do not abound in crimes more numerous, and more fatal to society, even than those of savages. Of these Swift has given us a long muster-roll, where he describes the happy life he led among the Houyhnhnms, free from the odious scenes of vice in his own country, in the following passage: "I enjoyed perfect health of body, and tranquillity of mind; I did not feel the treachery or inconstancy of a friend, nor the injuries of a secret or open enemy. I had no occasion of bribing, flattering, or pimping, to procure the favour of any great man, or his minion. I wanted no fence against fraud or oppression; here was neither physician to destroy my body, nor lawyer to ruin my fortune; no informer to watch my words and actions, or forge accusations against me for hire: here were no gibers, censurers, backbiters, pickpockets, highwaymen, housebreakers, attornies, bawds, buffoons, gamesters, politicians, wits, spleneticks, tedious talkers, controvertists, ravishers, murderers, robbers, virtuosoes: no leaders or followers of party and faction; no encouragers to vice by seducement or example; no dungeons, axes, gibbets, whippingposts, or pillories; no cheating shopkeepers or mechanicks; no pride, vanity, or affectation; no fops, bullies, drunkards, strolling whores, or poxes; no ranting, lewd, expensive wives; no stupid proud pedants; no importunate, overbearing, quarrelsome, noisy, roaring, empty, conceited, swearing companions; no scoundrels raised from the dust upon the merit of their vices, or nobility thrown into it on account of their virtues; no lords, fidlers, judges, or dancingmasters."

In another place, after having brought the whole state of affairs in England before the judgment seat of the king of Brobdingnag, he thus relates the sentiments of that wise and virtuous monarch on the occasion: "He was perfectly astonished with the historical account I gave him of our affairs during the last century, protesting it was only a heap of conspiracies, rebellions, murders, massacres, revolutions, banishments, the very worst effects that avarice, faction, hypocrisy, perfidiousness, cruelty, rage, madness, hatred, envy, lust, malice, and ambition could produce. His majesty in another audience was at the pains to recapitulate the sum of all I had spoken; compared the questions with the answers I had given; then taking me into his hands, and stroking me gently, delivered himself in these words, which I shall never forget, nor the manner he spoke them in: 'My little friend Grildrig, by what I have gathered from your own relation, and the answers I have with much pains wringed and extorted from you, I cannot but conclude the bulk of your natives to be the most pernicious race of little odious vermin, that nature ever suffered to crawl on the surface of the earth."

Is it not strange, that so bold a satire on human nature, in its actual state of existence, should excite no resentment in mankind, and that they should so readily take the alarm at an imaginary representation of it? But in the former case men are ready enough to see and allow all manner of vices and bad qualities of the mind in others, though they are so blinded by self-love as not to find the resemblance to themselves; but when their bodily form, common to all men, is vilified and debased, each individual brings the attack home to himself; his self-love takes fire at the view, and kindles his indignation against the author, as an enemy to the whole human species. That this opinion, however ill founded, became so general, is easily to be accounted for, as taking its rise from two of the most prevailing passions in human nature, pride and envy. The former called the universal passion by Dr. Young; and the latter partaking of its nature, as springing from the same root. Their pride instantly took fire upon seeing that part of their frame, whereof in general men are most vain, represented in so odious a light; and envy seized the occasion of making so heavy a charge as that of misanthropy, against a man of such uncommon talents. This broke forth chiefly among authors, jealous of that high degree of fame obtained by the superiority of his genius; and as he was unassailable on that side, they thought to bring him down more on a level with themselves, by attributing some of the finest exertions of that genius to a malevolent disposition: and as the prejudices of mankind were of their side, they cheaply purchased credit to themselves, from appearing champions for the dignity of human nature.

Yet there were not wanting others of clearer discernment, and a more liberal turn of mind, who saw this whole affair in its true light. Among these the benevolent and judicious Dr. Hawksworth, steps forth as an advocate for Swift, and decidedly gives judgment in his favour. In one of his notes on Gulliver, he says, "Whoever is disgusted with this picture of a Yahoo, would do well to reflect, that it becomes his own in exact proportion as he deviates from virtue; for virtue is the perfection of reason: the appetites of those abandoned to vice, are not less brutal and sordid than those of a Yahoo, nor is their life a state of less abject servility." And in another of his comments upon a passage wherein Swift had given a lively and true description of the horrours of war, stripped of all the glare and false colouring thrown over it by vain glory and ambition, he explains, justifies, and applauds the author's motive, for exhibiting here, as well as in all other parts of this admirable work, such true pictures of the vicious practices and habits of mankind, however sanctified by custom, or embellished by fashion. His words are these, — "It would perhaps be impossible, by the most laboured arguments, or forcible eloquence, to show the absurd injustice and horrid cruelty of war, so effectually, as by this simple exhibition of them in a new light: with war, including every species of iniquity, and every art of destruction, we become familiar by degrees, under specious terms; which are seldom examined, because they are learned at an age in which the mind receives and retains whatever is imprest on it. Thus it happens, that when one man murders another to gratify his lust, we shudder at it; but when one man murders a million to gratify his vanity, we approve and admire, we envy and applaud. If, when this and the preceding pages are read, we discover with astonishment, that when the same events have occurred in history, we felt no emotion, and acquiesced in wars which we could not but know to have been commenced for such causes, and carried on by such means; let not him be censured for too much debasing his species, who has contributed to their felicity and preservation, by stripping off the veil of custom and prejudice, and holding up, in their native deformity, the vices by which they become wretched, and the arts by which they are destroyed."

Such is the construction which will be put by all men of candour, taste, and judgment, upon these, and all other passages in Swift of a similar kind. But if there are still any who will persist in finding out their own resemblance in the Yahoo, in the name of God, if the cap fits, let them wear it, and rail on. I shall only take my leave of them with an old Latin sentence, Qui capit ille facit.

There is another writer, at present of gigantick fame in these days of little men, who has pretended to scratch out a life of Swift, but so miserably executed, as only to reflect back on himself that disgrace, which he meant to throw upon the character of the dean. I promised in the preface to make some strictures on this work, which I shall now perform. At his setting out, Dr. Johnson shows, which is scarcely credible, that he held this extraordinary man in very little estimation, and that he was not qualified to give any account of him with the least degree of accuracy. He begins his relation thus: "Jonathan Swift was, according to an account said to be written by himself, the son of Jonathan Swift, an attorney, and was born at Dublin on St. Andrew's day, 1667: according to his own report, as delivered by Pope to Spence, he was born at Leicester, the son of a clergyman, who was minister of a parish in Herefordshire. During his life, the place of his birth was undetermined. He was contented to be called an Irishman by the Irish, but would occasionally call himself an Englishman. The question may, without much regret, be left in the obscurity in which he delighted to involve it." Here we see how utterly careless he was about a fact of the greatest notoriety, and established by the most authentick proofs. "According to an account said to be written by himself," &c. Pray mark that expression. Had he taken the trouble to inform himself, he would have found that this account said to be written, is really in the dean's own handwriting, and lodged by his relation Deane Swift in the library of Dublin college, an account of which he has published in his Essay on the Life of Swift. In the 21st Section of these Memoirs, the dean says, speaking of himself, "He was born in Dublin, on St. Andrew's day." In opposition to this account given by himself, Dr. Johnson quotes a report from a second hand, communicated to him from Pope through Spence. "During his life, the place of his birth was undetermined." On the contrary, I say that the place of his birth never admitted of any doubt, by those who were desirous of information on that head; and if the doctor had ever looked into his correspondence, he would have found that he acknowledged it in several of his letters. "He was contented to be called an Irishman by the Irish, but would occasionally call himself an Englishman." In the same place, where he found that he would occasionally call himself an Englishman, he might have seen the reason of his doing so; which was, that "though dropped in Ireland," as he himself expresses it, in a letter to lord Oxford, he was descended from English progenitors on both sides. But the doctor seems to have thrown this matter into a state of doubt, merely to introduce the last sentence, in order to insinuate the contemptible idea he had of Swift, where he says, — "The question may, without much regret, be left in the obscurity in which he delighted to involve it." Which in plain English would run thus — It is of very little moment where the fellow was born. As he has been very exact in stating the places of their birth in all the other Lives of his Poets, even those of the lower class, his marked indifference here is the more striking. But it will be said — Is there any man upon earth that can have a contemptible idea of Swift? Yes — such is the high notion which the doctor entertains of his own superiority, that he always treated his name with contempt. His common expression in talking of him, was, that Swift was a very shallow fellow.

Upon that passage in Swift's Life, where it is related that in the early part of it, he generally travelled on foot, and lay at waggoner's inns, he has the following comment. "This practice lord Orrery imputes to his innate love of grossness and vulgarity: some may ascribe it to his desire of surveying human life through all its varieties; and others, perhaps with equal probability, to a passion which seems to have been deep fixed in his heart, the love of a shilling." How little ground there was for such a charge against Swift, has been amply shown; but that it should be authorized here, by the same writer, who in another place says, — "With all this talk of his covetousness and generosity, it should be remembered that he was never rich," — can be imputed only to a spirit of detraction.

On another occasion he relates the following anecdote: Of his humour, a story told by Pope may afford a specimen, thus related by Spence.

Doctor Swift has an odd, blunt way, that is mistaken by strangers for ill nature. — 'Tis so odd that there is no describing it but by facts. I'll tell you one that first comes into my head. One evening Gay and I went to see him: you know how intimately we were all acquainted. On our coming in, "Heyday, gentlemen (says the doctor) what's the meaning of this visit! How came you to leave all the great lords that you are so fond of, to come hither to see a poor dean?" "Because we would rather see you than any of them." "Ay, any one that did not know so well as I do, might believe you. But since you are come, I must get some supper for you, I suppose." — "No, doctor, we have supped already." — "Supped already, that's impossible! why it is not eight o'clock yet. — That's very strange! but, if you had not supped, I must have got something for you. — Let me see, what should I have had? A couple of lobsters; ay, that would have done very well; two shillings — tarts a shilling: but you will drink a glass of wine with me, though you supped so much before your usual time only to spare my pocket." — "No, we had rather talk with you, than drink with you." — "But if you had supped with me, as in all reason you ought to have done, you must then have drank with me. — A bottle of wine, two shillings — two and two is four, and one is five; just two and sixpence a piece. There, Pope, there's half a crown for you, and there's another for you, sir; for I won't save any thing by you, I am determined. — This was all said and done with his usual seriousness on such occasions; and in spite of every thing we could say to the contrary, he actually obliged us to take the money."

In all this account it is evident that Swift saw into his friends motive for not supping with him, which was the fear of putting him to expense. Their pretending to have supped at so unusual an hour, and afterward refusing a glass of wine, even supposing they had supped, were full proofs of this. It was clear therefore to him that they had given credit to the common report of his covetousness; and in order to show that he was above such sordid thrift, and to punish them for supposing it, by this practical rebuke, he made them undergo the shame of putting into their pockets, what would otherwise have been spent in good fellowship. This was evidently Swift's view, though it does not seem to have occurred to Dr. Johnson, who relates it only as an instance of his odd humour.

In his account of the Tale of a Tub, the doctor says, — "That Swift was its author, though it be universally believed, was never owned by himself, nor very well proved by any evidence." Surely the doctor has never seen the letters that passed between the dean and Ben Tooke, published at the beginning of the 16th volume of his Works; wherein he not only acknowledges himself the author, but gives directions about the publication of another edition, with an Apology prefixed to it.

With regard to The Battle of the Books, he has revived the old charge of plagiarism against Swift, in the following passage. "The Battle of the Books is so like the Combat des Livres, which the same question concerning the Ancients and Moderns had produced in France, that the improbability of such a coincidence of thoughts without communication, is not, in my opinion, balanced by the anonymous protestation prefixed, in which all knowledge of the French book is peremptorily disowned."

This charge was first made against Swift by Wotton, in the following words: "I have been assured, that the Battle in St. James's Library, is, mutatis mutandis, taken out of a French book, entitled, Combat des Livres, if I misremember not." Thus answered by Swift. "In which passage there are two clauses observable: I have been assured; and, if I misremember not. I desire first to know, whether, if that conjecture proves an utter falsehood, those two clauses will be a sufficient excuse for this worthy critick. The matter is a trifle; but would he venture to pronounce at this rate upon one of greater moment? I know nothing more contemptible in a writer, than the character of a plagiary, which he here fixes at a venture; and this not for a passage, but a whole discourse, taken out from another book, only mutatis mutandis. The author is as much in the dark about this, as the answerer; and will imitate him by an affirmation at random; that if there be a word of truth in this reflection, he is a paltry imitating pedant; and the answerer is a person of wit, manners, and truth. He takes his boldness, from never having seen any such treatise in his life, nor heard of it before: and he is sure it is impossible for two writers, of different times and countries, to agree in their thoughts after such a manner, that two continued discourses shall be the same, only mutatis mutandis. Neither will he insist upon the mistake, in the title; but let the answerer and his friend produce any book they please, he defies them to show one single particular, where the judicious reader will affirm he has been obliged for the smallest hint, giving only allowance for the accidental encountering of a single thought, which he knows may sometimes happen; though he has never yet found it in that discourse, nor has heard it obejected by any body else."

Is it possible to conceive that Swift would have made so bold an appeal, if he were not conscious of the truth of what he advanced, when he might have been so easily confuted? Or that Wotton would not have seized the opportunity, if he had it in his power, of supporting his charge, to the utter disgrace of his adversary? But, since neither he, nor any one else, has ever made the attempt, is it not astonishing that the calumny should still remain? This is a striking instance of that levelling principle in mankind, which swallows with avidity any slanders propagated to the disadvantage of exalted characters; for though I have never yet met with any mortal who had seen such a book, yet I have heard from the mouths of hundreds that Swift's Battle of the Books was taken from a French book, called Combat des Livres." Now, though this might be expected from the bulk of mankind, on account of the principle above mentioned, what shall we say when we find a professed biographer, bound by every principle of justice and humanity to guard the memory of the dead against false aspersions, become himself a particeps criminis, by giving his sanction to a charge which in the very face of it carries not the least air of truth? This charge is made by an avowed enemy, not from his own knowledge, but from hearsay; and that too in the most guarded manner; notwithstanding which suspicious circumstances, Dr. Johnson assumes it as a truth, and forms his deductions from it accordingly. The manner in which he invalidates the answer to it, is most curious, and well worthy of the reader's observation; where he says, — "That the improbability of such a coincidence of thoughts, without communication, [still you see taking the fact for granted] is not, in my opinion, balanced by the anonymous protestation prefixed, in which all knowledge of the French book is peremptorily disowned." Now the only reason here assigned for not giving due credit to this protestation, is, that it is anonymous; and in that case we are never to give credit to any of Swift's publications, as they were all anonymous, except his letter to the earl of Oxford. But there is no one who has the least knowledge of style, that is not as sure that the Apology was written by Swift, as if he saw it in his own handwriting. Or, if there were any doubt, his letter to Tooke proves it beyond all contradiction. This is such an instance of gross prejudice, and want of candour, as should make the reader cautious how he gives any credit to the many other misrepresentations of this great man's character, dispersed throughout the work.

In speaking of Swift's political writings, he says — "But he was now immerging into political controversy; for the same year produced the Examiner, of which Swift wrote thirty three papers. In argument he may be allowed to have the advantage, &c. but with regard to wit, I am afraid none of Swift's papers will be found equal to those by which Addison opposed him."

Here he has shown a most shameful ignorance of his subject, by saying that Swift was opposed by Addison; for had he only turned to the books, he would have found that Addison's last Whig Examiner, was published October 12, 1710; and Swift's first Examiner on the 10th of the following November. So that all this boasted superiority of Addison over Swift in this supposed contest, falls to the ground; and I believe the doctor will find it hard to persuade the world, that either Addison, or any man that ever lived, was superiour to Swift in wit.

On another shining part of Swift's character, he makes the following remark. "His disinterestedness has been likewise mentioned, &c. He refused, indeed, fifty pounds from lord Oxford, but he accepted afterward a draught of a thousand upon the exchequer, which was intercepted by the queen's death, and which he resigned, as he says himself, multa gemens, with many a groan." In what an invidious light has he placed this transaction! But this is a common artifice of malice, to relate bare facts, without any of the concomitant circumstances, which may place those facts in a very different point of view. As they are stated here, the inference to be drawn, is, that though Swift rejected the offer of so paltry a sum as that of fifty pounds, he was not proof against so large a bribe as that of a thousand; and this naturally follows from omitting the circumstances of time and occasion. When lord Oxford presented him with a bill for fifty pounds, it was at an early period of their acquaintance, when Swift engaged to employ his pen in behalf of the measures of that ministry; and was to be considered only as an earnest of future gratifications of the same kind, according to his future merits. We have seen with what indignation he rejected this intended favour, and what resentment he showed at his being thus put on the footing of a hireling writer. He afterward continued his services for near three years without receiving or soliciting any reward; and when at last the deanery of St. Patrick's was given him, he told lord Oxford that he ought to have been put into the clear possession of it, and not be obliged to borrow money, as he hated of all things to be in debt, for the necessary expenses attending his induction to it. His claim was the stronger on the ministry for this, as he was not at all indebted to them for his preferment, which he owed entirely to the friendship of the duke of Ormond. I believe all the world will allow, that, had he received it, this would have been but a poor reward for all his long and important services; and had he pushed it, there can be no doubt but that it would have been obtained. But finding his first hint neglected by lord Oxford, he scorned to press it any farther; and the order on the exchequer was made out without his participation, as has been shown before, under the short administration of lord Bolingbroke. The latter part of the sentence — "and which he resigned, as he says himself, multa gemens, with many a groan," — is written in the same spirit with the rest: for it is evident from the whole turn of the letter which contains this passage, that Swift used this phrase jocosely, which the doctor chooses to take in a serious light, and translate literally. It was impossible indeed that he could have the least solicitude about it at the time this letter was writ, in the year 1726, fourteen years after he had received the order, which he never thought of presenting. For though it is highly probable, from the great favour which he then stood in with the princess, and the civil reception he met with even at St. James's, that upon proper application he might have been paid the demand, to which he had an equitable right; yet he scorned to owe any obligation to a minister, of whose measures he so entirely disapproved. And that this was his way of thinking is fully proved by a letter written to Dr. Sheridan about the same time, where he says, — "Tell the archdeacon that I never asked for my thousand pound, which he heard I have got; although I mentioned it to the princess the last time I saw her, but I bid her tell Walpole I scorned to ask him for it."

But of all the charges brought against Swift, there is one of the most malignant nature, which has never even been hinted at by any other writer; and is utterly unsupported by any evidence. It is contained in the following passage: "Swift was popular awhile by another mode of beneficence. He set aside some hundreds to be lent in small sums to the poor, from five shillings, I think, to five pounds. He took no interest, and only required that at repayment, a small fee should be given to the accomptant; but he required that the day of promised payment should be exactly kept. A severe and punctilious temper is ill qualified for transactions with the poor; the day was often broken, and the loan was not repaid. This might have been easily foreseen; but for this Swift had made no provision of patience or pity. He ordered his debtors to be sued. A severe creditor has no popular character; what then was likely to be said of him who employs the catchpoll under the appearance of charity? The clamour against him was loud, and the resentment of the populace outrageous; he was therefore forced to drop his scheme, and own the folly of expecting punctuality from the poor."

Now I do assert, from my own knowledge, that there is not one syllable of truth in this whole account, from the beginning to the end. I have before shown what wise precautions Swift took to prevent any diminution of this fund; which were so effectual, that it held out entire to the last, and the circulation of it continued unimpaired, till he was deprived of his understanding; as numbers of families, who now live in credit, and who originally owed their establishment to what was borrowed from that fund, can attest. From his first setting out in this passage, we see how willing the doctor was to depreciate this noble charity, where he says — "He set aside some hundreds to be lent in small sums to the poor, from five shillings, I think, to five pounds." Some hundreds, may mean two or three hundred, had he consulted any of his Memoir writers, he would have found that the sum was five hundred pounds; and that it was lent out, not in small sums from five shillings to five pounds, but from five pounds to ten. And though the doctor has guarded his paltry sum of five shillings, with an — I think — what apology can be made for conjecture, where certainty was so easily to be obtained? As to the cruelty he is charged with to his poor debtors, whatever report of that sort may have been raised in London, it certainly never was heard, of in Dublin; but when he adds, that, on this account, "The clamour against him was loud, and the resentment of the populace outrageous" — one cannot help being astonished at so confident an assertion, against a fact of such publick notoriety: for even the worst maligners of the dean allow, that no man ever possessed the love of the populace to so high a degree; and it is well known in Dublin, that no part of his conduct ever gained him so much popularity, as this well devised, well managed charity. If the doctor had any authority for this gross misrepresentation, he ought to have produced it; otherwise the scandal may be brought home to himself — the scandal not only of attempting to deprive Swift of the merit of such a noble institution, but by such misrepresentation, to place his character in a most odious light.

But of all the instances that occur throughout this work, of the strong bias in the doctor's mind, to place every thing with regard to Swift in the worst light, no one is more remarkable than the account he gives of the forged letters sent to the queen in the dean's name, to be found in the following passage; where speaking of the queen, he says — "I know not whether she had not, in her turn, some reason for complaint. A letter was sent her, not so much entreating, as requiring her patronage of Mrs. Barber, an ingenious Irishwoman, who was then begging subscriptions for her poems. To this letter was subscribed the name of Swift, and it has all the appearances of his diction and sentiments; but it was not written in his hand, and had some little improprieties. When he was charged with this letter, he laid hold of the inaccuracies, and urged the improbability of the accusation; but never denied it: he shuffles between cowardice and veracity, and talks big when he says nothing." In answer to which, I am tempted to lay before the reader Swift's defence of himself, though set down in a former place, lest it might have escaped his observation. To a letter from his friend Pope, enclosing one of those forged ones, he makes the following reply: "As for those three letters you mention, supposed all to be written by me to the queen, on Mrs. Barber's account, especially the letter which bears my name, I can only say, that the apprehensions one may be apt to have of a friend's doing a foolish thing, is an effect of kindness; and God knows who is free from playing the fool some time or other. But in such a degree, as to write to the queen, who has used me ill without any cause, and to write in such a manner as the letter you sent me, and in such a style, and to have such a zeal for one almost a stranger, and to make such a description of a woman, as to prefer her before all mankind; and to instance it as one of the greatest grievances of Ireland, that her majesty has not encouraged Mrs. Barber, a woollendraper's wife declined in the world, because she has a knack of versifying; was, to suppose, or fear, a folly so transcendent, that no man could be guilty of, who was not fit for Bedlam. You know the letter you sent enclosed is not my hand, and why I should disguise, and yet sign my name, is unaccountable. — If the queen had not an inclination to think ill of me, she knows me too well to believe in her own heart that I should be such a coxcomb," &c. And in his letter to Mrs. Howard upon the same subject, he thus expresses himself: "I find, from several instances, that I am under the queen's displeasure; and, as it is usual among princes, without any manner of reason. I am told there were three letters sent to her majesty in relation to one Mrs. Barber, who is now in London, and soliciting for a subscription to her poems. It seems the queen thinks that these letters were written by me; and I scorn to defend myself, even to her majesty, grounding my scorn upon the opinion I had of her justice, her taste, and good sense: especially when the last of those letters, whereof I have just received the original from Mr. Pope, was signed with my name: and why I should disguise my hand, which you know very well, and yet write my name, is both ridiculous and unaccountable." Now, I appeal to the reader whether it was possible for a man to have made a stronger defence against such a charge. Stronger indeed than was at all necessary on the occasion, as it was soon discovered to be a trick of some enemy to render him ridiculous; and lost all credit at court; as we find by an answer to the above letter from lady Suffolk, in which she rallies the dean with great sprightliness. "Think of my joy to hear you suspected of folly; think of my pleasure when I entered the list for your justification! Indeed, I was a little disconcerted to find Mr. Pope took the same side; I for I would have had the man of wit, the dignified divine, the Irish Drapier have found no friend, but the silly woman and the courtier. . . . Now to my mortification, I find every body inclined to think you had no hand in writing these letters."

This impotent attack upon the dean, we find, was stifled in its birth. What shall we say then to the attempt made by Dr. Johnson to revive it at this distance of time, in order to level him with the lowest of mankind, by three gross imputations, each, of which is utterly incompatible with the whole of his character? And these are, no less than folly, falsehood, and cowardice. Folly in the extreme, in supposing him to write such letters, as could only reflect disgrace on himself, without any assignable motive for his doing so: falsehood of the worst kind, as prevarication is worse than lying; and cowardice in not daring to own what he had done. Who is there that knows any thing of Swift, his utter abhorrence of every species of falshood; his courage to speak the truth in the face of majesty, with the same freedom as before the meanest subject; but must be shocked at the audacity of the man, who dared to say of him — "He shuffles between cowardice and veracity, and talks big when he says nothing?"

The only reasons assigned by the doctor for his believing that the letters were really written by Swift, are these: 1st. To this letter was subscribed the name of Swift, and it has all the appearances of his diction and sentiments. Now I will appeal to any one of taste acquainted with Swift's style, whether there ever was a more clumsy imitation attempted, both with regard to thoughts and expression. It bears indeed as little resemblance to his, as one of Overton's wooden prints, to the copper-plate of Hogarth.

2d. "When he was charged with this letter, he laid hold of the inaccuracies, and urged the improbability of the accusation, but never denied it." That is to say, because Swift does not in express terms say, "I did not write those letters," — therefore he does not deny it. But his indignation at so base a charge was too great to answer it only by a simple denial; to his friend Pope he refutes it by such forcible arguments, as showed the impossibility of his being capable of such an egregious piece of folly, unless, as he expresses it, he were fit for Bedlam. "To the queen indeed (as he nobly says) I scorn to defend myself; grounding my scorn upon the opinion I had of her justice, her taste, and good sense."

While the doctor was maliciously endeavouring to fix the stain of a base prevarication on Swift, he did not foresee that the charge —

Would, like a devilish engine, back recoil
Upon himself.Milton.

For, as it is a received opinion in the world, that men judge of others by themselves, there is no one who sees so vile an imputation thrown on so exalted a character, upon such bad grounds, but will suppose the doctor capable of acting in that manner himself, under similar circumstances.

It were a tedious business to follow the doctor through many other passages equally reprehensible; but by those which I have already exposed, I have shown how little credit is to be given to the rest. All candid readers of the other Lives written by this biographer, will see how enviously he has endeavoured to depreciate the characters, or works, of men of the greatest genius, and to exalt others of little fame. Of this he has given a remarkable instance in the very next Life to that of Swift, which may be considered as an antidote to his poison. What will posterity say, when they see the Life of Savage extended to double the number of pages, occupied by that of Swift? When they shall find the writings of the one, not a line of which will probably descend to them, highly extolled; and the works of the immortal Swift, either condemned, or slightly praised? When they shall see every art used to palliate the actions of one of the worst of men, and place his character in the most favourable light; and all the ingenuity of malice exerted to misrepresent the conduct, and vilify the character of one of the best? But whatever pains the doctor may have taken in drawing all these portraits of our poets, they will never be considered as likenesses; except his own, which he has unwarily handed down to future ages, in such strong features, that the resemblance never can be doubted.

In opposition to all the maligners of Swift, most of whom were such —

As neither knew his faculties or person — Shaks.

I shall oppose the testimony of two men, who were of his intimate acquaintance for more than twenty years, Dr. Delany, and Dr. Stopford. The first concludes his answer to lord Orrery in the following manner.

"My lord, when you consider Swift's singular, peculiar, and most variegated vein of wit, always intended rightly, although not always rightly directed; delightful in many instances, and salutary even where it is most offensive; when you consider his strict truth, his fortitude in resisting oppression and arbitrary power; his fidelity in friendship; his sincere love and zeal for religion; his uprightness in making right resolutions, and his steady adherence to them: his care of his church, its choir, its economy, and its income: his attention to all those that preached in his cathedral in order to their amendment in pronunciation and style; as also his remarkable attention to the interest of his successors, preferably to his own present emoluments; his invincible patriotism, even to a country which he did not love; his very various, welldevised, welljudged, and extensive charities, throughout his life; and his whole fortune conveyed to the same Christian purposes at his death: charities, from which he could enjoy no honour, advantage, or satisfaction of any kind, in this world.

"When you consider his ironical and humorous, as well as his serious schemes for the promotion of true religion and virtue; his success in soliciting for the first fruits and twentieths, to the unspeakable benefit of the established church of Ireland; and his felicity (to rate it no higher) in giving occasion to the building of fifty new churches in London.

"All this considered, the character of his life will appear like that of his writings, they will both bear to be reconsidered, and reexamined with the utmost attention; and will always discover new beauties and excellencies, upon every examination.

"They will bear to be considered as the sun, in which the brightness will hide the blemishes; and whenever petulant ignorance, pride, malice, malignity, or envy interposes, to cloud, or sully his fame, I will take upon me to pronounce the eclipse will not last long.

"To conclude. — No man ever deserved better of any country, than Swift did of his. A steady, persevering, inflexible friend: a wise, a watchful, and a faithful counsellor under many severe trials, and bitter persecutions, to the manifest hazard both of his liberty and fortune.

"He lived a blessing, he died a benefactor, and his name will ever live an honour to Ireland."

The other was written in Latin, by Dr. Stopford, bishop of Cloyne; a man inferiour to none of his time in learning, benevolence, and piety; adorned with all the qualities that constitute the scholar, the gentleman, and the Christian. Swift, on an early acquaintance, soon distinguished so excellent a character, took him into his confidence, became his patron, and never ceased his good offices till, from a junior fellow of the college, he raised him to that high rank, so suited to his merit. The good bishop, who always acknowledged that he owed every step of his preferment entirely to Swift, paid the following tribute to the memory of his deceased friend and benefactor.

MEMORIÆ Jonath. Swift, S.

QUEM vivum ex animo coluit, amico liceat mortuum deflere, atque hoc qualicunque fungi munere.

A. C. 1745 Octobris die 19^no obiit Jonathan Swift Decanus Ecclesiæ Cathedralis Sancti Patricii Dubliniensis; vixit annos septuaginta septem, decem menses, 19 dies.

Vir ultra quam homini concessum videtur, maximis ornatus virtutibus. Vires ingenii mirandæ potius, quam a quoquam exoptandæ; quas exercuit præcipuè in politicis & poetica.

Incorruptus inter pessimos mores; magni atque constantis animi; libertatis semper studiosissimus, atque nostri reipublicæ status, a Gothis quondam sapienter instituti, laudator perpetuus, propugnator acerrimus. Cujus tamen formam, ambitu & largitione adeo fædatam ut vix nunc dignosci possit, sæpius indignabundus plorabat.

Patriæ amore flagrans sortem Hiberniæ, quoties deflevit! quoties laboranti subvenit! Testis epistolæ illæ nunquam interituræ, quibus, insulam miserè labantem, jamque juga ahenea subeuntem, erexit, confirmavit; impiis inimicorum conatibus fortiter infractis, prostratis.

Privatam si inspicias vitam, cum illo gratias, lepores, sales interiisse dicas; quibus suavissime sermones conditi, summo tamen cum decore, utpote cui unicè propositum, quod verum, quod decens, amicis & civibus suis assidue commendare.

Nec levior flagitiorum vindex, fraudes, ambitionem, avaritiam, dictis acerrimè laceravit, exemplo feliciter oppressit.

Erga bonos comis, liberalis, pius, commodis amicorum anxiè inserviens; pro pauperibus semper sollicitus; quorum egestati in hac urbe mire consuluit, pecuniâ mutuo datâ infimis artificum, in ratâ, eâque exigua portione per septimanas rependenda, unde multi paupertati jam succumbentes, sese paulatim expedierunt.

Idem, abstinentiæ exemplar antiquum, parcè atque duriter rem familiarem administravit; quasque sibi inutiles spernebat opes, sedulo tamen comparatas, domui hospitali condendæ, moriens magnifice legavit: ubi idiotæ & lunatici, collati muneris ignari, piè semper tractarentur.

Hic vir, tantus, talisque, qui vividis ingenii viribus longè genus humanum superabat, a civibus ingratis diu neglectus, magnatum invidiam sæpius, gratiam vix unquam expertus, triginta duos annos latuit in Hiberniâ, nullo ultra decanatum insignitus titulo; quod tamen illi pro votis accidisse inter amicos constat, quippe cui semper in ore erat; non tam referre, quo genere honorum sis ornatus, quam a quibus & inter quos.

Tandem senio, atque intolerandis capitis doloribus confectus, mente, memoria, sensu paulatim deficientibus, jamque penitus extinctis, per quatuor postremos vitæ annos, inter mœrentes amicos mortuus vixit; quem tamen omni laude dignissimum ritè consecrant divina ingenii lumina.

I shall close my account of this extraordinary man, with laying open one leading part of his character, which may serve as a clew to the whole. He was perhaps the most disinterested man that ever lived. No selfish motive ever influenced any part of his conduct. He loved virtue for its own sake, and was content it should be its own reward. The means to arrive at rank, fortune, and fame, the three great objects of pursuit in other men, though all thrown in his way, he utterly despised, satisfied with having deserved them. The same principle operated equally on the author, as on the man; as he never put his name to his works, nor had any solicitude about them, after they had once made their appearance in the world. The last act of his life showed how far he made this a rule of conduct, in his choice of the charity to which he bequeathed his fortune; leaving it for the support of idiots and lunatics, beings that could never know their benefactor.

Upon the whole, when we consider his character as a man, perfectly free from vice, with few frailties, and such exalted virtues; and as an author, possessed of such uncommon talents, such an original vein of humour, such an inexhaustible fund of wit, joined to so clear and solid an understanding; when we behold these two characters united in one and the same person; perhaps it will not be thought too bold an assertion, to say, that his parallel is not to be found either in the history of ancient or modern times.

1. He was never mentioned by any other title but that of The dean; in the same manner as Aristotle was called The Stagyrite, and Homer The poet.
2. The mandarins of China, from an absurd custom of letting their nails grow to their utmost extent, as a mark of distinction, are obliged to have all the common offices of life, even to that of feeding them, performed by their domesticks.
3. It is said the late queen had the curiosity to see this wild man, but was so shocked at the appearance he made, that she ordered him immediately out of her presence.