some time there, probably to meet as many good fellows as he could
before settling in the country and beginning his noble career as host.
He must have had a good many adventures at home and abroad, but only one
has come down to us, and that happened during his stay in Dublin. The
story is worth telling because it shows him in another light. At that
time, towards the end of Queen Anne’s reign, party feeling was at its
height; Whigs and Tories had just been bitterly divided about the Peace,
and the question of who was to be Anne’s successor was widening the rift
between parties. As usual, Dublin was a storm-centre; blows were
following words more closely than ever, and gentlemen were calling each
other out every day. News of this delectable state of affairs in Dublin
reached the ears of two fighting men in London, Major Pack and Captain
Creed, who thought it a good opportunity to try their skill in fence
among the Irish, and so set out for Dublin in search of adventures.
Determined to go to the fountain-head of honour, they made inquiry in
the Dublin coffee-houses for the best swordsmen, and learned that a
gentleman lately arrived from France was accounted one of the best in
Europe. This was no other than our friend Mathew. Major Pack, who was
clearly no Bobadil, resolved to take the first opportunity of picking a
quarrel. Seeing Mathew carried along the street in his chair one day,
the fire-eating major, after the manner of his kind, deliberately
jostled the fore-chairman. Mathew, however, being a quiet fellow for all
his swordsmanship, gave the major the benefit of the doubt and took no
notice of the incident. But, unfortunately for himself, Pack boasted of
the affair in a public coffee-house, giving it out that Mathew had not
the spirit to ask for an explanation. A friend of Mathew’s, Macnamara by
name and one of the best fencers in Ireland, happened to be present, and
he promptly took up the quarrel, told the major that his friend Mathew
would certainly have chastised him had he observed the affront, and
promised, on his absent friend’s behalf, a speedy meeting if that was
what the major was wanting. The upshot of it was that within a few
hours’ time, in a private room in a tavern, four Christian gentlemen
were busily engaged in trying to let each other’s blood out.
Four--because the seconds, Macnamara and Captain Creed, could not allow
themselves to be mere spectators, and so fell to work with their
principals. The fight, which should cut some figure in the annals of the
duel, was long and bloody. But though the two English officers fought
with great obstinacy, they were clearly out-matched, and finally were so
exhausted from the wounds they had received that they were compelled to
admit defeat.
Here Mathew’s biographer, after describing the combat, tells us of a
singular circumstance, which is best related in his own words. ‘Upon
this occasion,’ he writes, ‘Mathew gave a remarkable proof of the
perfect composure of his mind during the action. Creed had fallen first,
on which Pack exclaimed: “Ah, poor Creed, are you gone?” “Yes,” replied
Mathew, with the utmost calmness, “and you shall instantly _pack_ after
him,” at the same time making a home thrust quite through his body,
which threw him to the ground. This was the more remarkable as he was
never known in his life, either before or after, to have aimed at a
pun.’ Bravo, Mathew! Had you never been the greatest of hosts, had you
never attained such skill with the sword, yet we could have made shift
to send you down to posterity as ‘Single-Pun Mathew.’ I am not sure,
however, that our chronicler is right when he gives us this as an
example of Mathew’s perfect composure of mind. Surely this solitary pun,
this lonely but splendid star, was due to the temporary absence of that
perfect composure of his mind; a momentary feeling of elation crashed
through his lifelong habit of avoiding puns, and out the thing flashed.
On this incident alone one could build up a very pretty defence of those
Shakespearian puns which appear to be the bane of so many worthy
persons’ admiration for the poet. But Major Pack and Captain Creed are
still bleeding on the tavern floor--we must return to them. The
surgeons, finding it impossible to have them moved, had beds brought
into the room, where the two officers lay for many weeks. At first their
lives were despaired of, but being stout fellows, they contrived to
astonish everybody by recovering. It is pleasant to relate that their
most constant visitors were Mathew and his friend Macnamara, that all
four were soon on the best of terms, and that Pack and Creed were
completely cured of their fire-eating propensities. We can safely leave
them to rejoin their regiments, and turn to Mathew in his greatest
_rôle_, Mathew as host.
He had stayed long enough in Dublin to gather about him a circle of
excellent friends, and so he determined to retire to his estate at
Thomastown and begin his great work. All his plans had been put into
execution, and everything was ready. And now you shall discover what
manner of host he was. But first let me ask you to consider, in strict
private, your own trials as a guest; think of the visits you have made
that you began in high hopes and cut short in utter weariness; remember
the tribulations that only the guest, modest, sanguine, wistful,
long-suffering, can know, those thorns thick-set about the rose of
hospitality; enumerate the things that have made you invent appointments
to get away and tell lies innumerable to avoid returning; consider what
might have made your stay in Jones’ house a pleasant memory and your
good friend Brown a better host; and when you have done all this, you
will be more apt to appraise Mathew at his true worth.
His house had accommodation for forty guests and their servants, and
each guest had every convenience to hand in his own suite of rooms. If
he wished, a guest could take his meals in his own apartment, ordering
what he wanted from the kitchen and, if he felt inclined, inviting other
guests to dine with him. If he wanted society, he could go to the
common dining-room, where a ‘daily ordinary’--as they called it
then--was kept. Here there was none of the customary ceremony; the host
took his place anywhere; all ideas of rank and precedence were laid
aside; they were all good fellows together. This dining-room must have
been like nothing that we have known in a private house; it comes nearer
to a restaurant, but a restaurant somewhere in the Happy Isles, a
restaurant of men’s dreams, where the company is select and small, the
fare choice, the waiters quick and obliging and innocent of tip-hunting,
and, not least, one where there is nothing to pay. This was the day of
the coffee-house, and Mathew had one of his largest rooms fitted up to
resemble one of these places, upon which contemporary civilisation
seemed to be dependent. It had all the features of the City
coffee-house, such as Will’s, the haunt of Dryden, or Button’s, beloved
of Addison; there were barmaids and waiters, ready to supply
refreshments at all hours of the day; and chess-boards, backgammon
tables, newspapers, pamphlets, and what not. But more wonderful still,
the mansion contained not only a coffee-house, but a tavern! Oh, noble
Mathew! One could, of course, take a glass in one’s own room or the
coffee-house, or split a bottle in the dining-room--there was no
restriction; still, for the sake of the jolly Pantagruelian fellows
among his guests, Mathew set up a tavern. There, attended by a ‘waiter
in a blue apron’ (then the fashion in taverns), they could give their
orders without restraint, and fuddle and roar it after supper without
fear of disturbing the more sedate members of the house-party.
There were plenty of games at Thomastown, but no gamesters, for the only
restriction we hear of in the place refers, wisely enough, to gambling.
It was the sportsman’s paradise. There were two billiard tables and a
bowling green; fishing-tackle of all kinds and various guns; a pack of
buckhounds, another of foxhounds, and yet another of harriers, and
twenty hunters in the stable for the use of those guests who had not
their own. We hear nothing of a library, but perhaps because it is taken
for granted. I hope so. Mathew, I am certain, was no Squire Western, but
a man given not to devouring books, but at least to delicate bouts of
reading; no student or ‘wit,’ but one, as the fashion then was, with a
gentlemanly taste for letters. I like to think that there was a
library, perhaps immediately above the coffee-house, where one could
range among the tall folios and now and then come upon a ‘kind-hearted
play-book,’ and also have the pleasure of taking down one or two things
strange to one, new books, something by Crébillon or Le Sage, Prior’s
poems or the brand-new work by Mr. Pope, _The Rape of the Lock_. Nor do
we hear anything of music, but this, too, we may surely take for
granted. In all this changing company of Irish gentlemen there must have
been more than a few musicians, and somewhere on the premises a
clavichord or spinet and a viol or two for them to play. One would like
to think that a select company, before adjourning to the ‘tavern’ after
supper, could listen to something in the strain of _Stay, Shepherd_ or
_Whither runneth my Sweetheart?_ a song by Dr. Blow or something from
one of Mr. Purcell’s operas, and perhaps even a sonata by Corelli or one
of Couperin’s suites, which had once set our host Mathew tapping his
feet when he was in France. These are perhaps idle fancies, but we are
not to be denied them, and they are not too idle to complete the
picture.
But Mathew’s great glory comes not so much from the lavishness of his
hospitality, in which, of course, he has been often surpassed, though
perhaps by none of equal means, as from the spirit in which that
hospitality was given, from his own conduct as host. When he showed each
new guest over the house, he always told him: ‘This is your castle; here
you are to command as absolutely as in your own house.’ We have all
heard some such words as these, but Mathew really meant what he said. As
we have seen, a guest could dine or sup where he pleased; there was no
ceremony at the table, and Mathew took his place anywhere. In fact, he
made a point of mixing with his guests as one of themselves, and neither
invited nor expected compliments and thanks. Without good organisation
his scheme would have ruined him in a very short time: but he had some
faithful stewards and had so contrived his system of domestic economy
that there was no possibility of the waste and thieving common in most
large establishments then and since. He himself, it seems, superintended
everything, even the daily accounts, and did it early in the morning
before his guests were afoot. The house was always full, but we are told
that there was never any confusion or disorder. Mathew himself sometimes
went away for several days at a time, but everything went smoothly in
his absence. He was fortunate enough, it appears, to have solved the
‘servant problem,’ which, if we may believe Swift and other contemporary
writers, was very pressing at that time, and it says something for his
luck or wisdom that the idle, drunken, lying rogues of servants, so
familiar to readers of contemporary memoirs and so on, were entirely
absent from the house at Thomastown. And this mention of servants brings
us to our hero’s master-stroke. ‘Mr. Mathew,’ our authority tells us,
‘was the first that put an end to the inhospitable custom of giving
_vales_ to servants, by making a suitable addition to their wages; at
the same time assuring them that if they took any afterwards they should
be discharged with disgrace; and to prevent the temptation, the guests
were informed that he would consider it as the highest affront if any
offer of that sort were made.’ After that, to dwell longer on his rare
virtues as a host would be to paint the lily. Who will dare now to
contest the claim I have made for him? Oh, peerless Mathew!
Of the excellent persons who enjoyed such famous hospitality we know
little, with the exception of two to be noticed hereafter. But they
seem to have been all of one sex. In the short sketch of Mathew’s career
that I have plundered so freely, I can find no record of any ladies
among the guests. Nor is there any mention of a Mrs. Mathew, which is
not surprising, for woman, who knits up the social fabric and keeps
civilisation intact, does not favour these noble experiments, these
staggering ideals, these gigantic whims; she puts the golden hobby-horse
between the shafts or at the end of a towing-line. As a husband and
family man Mathew would have been admirable and still the very soul of
hospitality, but, you may depend upon it, he would never have carried
out his astonishing scheme, never have had his coffee-house and tavern
and what not at Thomastown, never have come down to us as one of the
most delightful eccentrics of his age. As it was, the life at Thomastown
was a purely masculine affair, as remote from femininity as that of a
monastery or a college, and better than either, where men not
desperately in love could ‘fleet the time carelessly,’ away from their
ladies’ eyes.[A] It is fortunate that we do know the names of at least
two of those lucky gentlemen who stayed with Mathew, and that one of
them happens to be a great man, a man who might be called a ‘hard case’
so far as guests are concerned, a man with a capacity for being
displeased that had not its equal in Europe, whose enjoyment may
reasonably be taken as the very acid test of Mathew’s scheme--no other
than Dean Swift. Yes, we are told that the great Dean himself rode down
to Tipperary and spent some time at Thomastown. The fact is not
recorded, so far as I know, in any of his numerous biographies; I have
taken it on trust from the old volume that contains Mathew himself. Like
many other stories, if it is not true it ought to be. But I see no
reason to doubt it.
[A] But I am assured by a gentleman bearing the same name, and
presumably of the same family, as our hero, that actually Mathew was
married twice; also that his Christian name was George--“Grand George”
he was called.
Swift’s friend, Dr. Sheridan, had charge of Mathew’s nephew for a time,
and not unnaturally became one of the welcome guests at Thomastown.
Through him Swift heard a great deal about the place, and, after a time,
wanted to find out for himself how much truth there was in these reports
of marvels, which seemed to him a monstrous tissue of exaggeration.
Mathew, hearing of this through Sheridan, despatched a polite note to
Swift, requesting the honour of a visit, in company with Sheridan, when
the latter should have his next school vacation. Swift, though a little
dubious, accepted the invitation, and some little time afterwards set
out for Thomastown with Sheridan and a near relation of Mathew’s. The
three of them rode all day through miry lanes and at length reached one
of the wretched wayside hovels that passed then for inns in Ireland.
Here they were to spend the night. Swift, who was very fastidious (did
he not once complain of ‘dirty sheets’ and get in return a rebuke that
is--or should be--historic?), began already to regret the adventure. But
they had not been in the inn more than a few minutes when a magnificent
coach-and-six thundered up to the door. It had been sent by Mathew to
carry them the remainder of the journey to Thomastown, and contained a
delectable supply of food, wine, and other liquors. Swift, we are told,
‘was highly pleased with this uncommon mark of attention paid him, and
the coach proved particularly acceptable as he had been a good deal
fatigued with his day’s journey.’ And an entertaining ride it must have
been, too, with the Dean in good spirits, little Dr. Sheridan chuckling
over the impromptu supper, and one and all rolling through the night on
the road to Tipperary.
When they came within sight of the house, Swift was astonished at its
size, and cried: ‘What, in the name of heaven, can be the use of such a
vast building?’
‘Why, Mr. Dean,’ returned Mathew’s relative, ‘there are no less than
forty apartments for guests in that house, and all of them probably
occupied at this time, except what are reserved for us.’
Swift was down in the dumps in a moment. You could not expect the author
of _Gulliver_ to relish his fellow-humans in a lump. Sticking his head
out of the window, he called to the coachman and told him to drive back
to Dublin, as he could not think of mixing with such a crowd. Then,
luckily for himself, as it turned out, he saw that the affair had gone
too far to be thus lightly abandoned. ‘Well,’ he declared gloomily,
‘there is no remedy; I must submit; but I have lost a fortnight of my
life.’ He had not; but how many fortnights in that long unhappy life of
his might not he have lost and yet only gained thereby, perhaps won some
little touch of heart’s ease?
He was received at the door by Mathew, who conducted him to his room,
made the usual speech about the customs of the house, and then retired,
leaving Swift, still gloomily submissive and not a little incredulous,
to his dour meditations. Shortly afterwards, however, the cook appeared
with his bill of fare, and the butler with his wine list, ready to
receive orders. ‘And is all this really so?’ Swift demanded of his two
companions; ‘and may I command here as in my own house?’ Dr. Sheridan
and his friend assured him that he might, that the host desired all his
guests to suit their own inclinations without the least restraint. ‘Well
then,’ cried Swift, ‘I invite you and Dr. Sheridan to be my guests while
I stay, for I think I shall scarcely be tempted to mix with the mob
below.’
Now listen to our historian, for we hasten to the climax:
Three days were passed in riding over the demesne, and viewing the
various improvements, without ever seeing Mr. Mathew or any of the
guests: nor were the company below much concerned at the dean’s
absence, as his very name usually inspired those who did not know
him with awe, and they were afraid that his presence would put an
end to the ease and cheerfulness which reigned among them. On the
fourth day Swift entered the room where the company were assembled
before dinner, and addressed Mr. Mathew in a strain of the highest
compliment, expatiating on all the beauties of his improvements,
with the skill of an artist, and with the taste of a connoisseur.
Such an address from a man of Swift’s character could not fail of
being pleasing to the owner, who was, at the same time, the planner
of these improvements; and so fine an eulogium from one who was
supposed to deal more largely in satire than panegyric was likely
to remove the prejudice entertained against his character, and
prepossess the rest of the company in his favour. He concluded his
speech by saying: ‘And now, gentlemen, I am come to live among you,
and it shall be no fault of mine if we do not pass our time
agreeably.’
There is something almost startling in the _naïveté_ of our historian’s
observation that ‘such an address ... could not fail of being pleasing.’
Pleasing indeed! Hearty praise in public from Jonathan Swift was worth
all that seven years’ sacrifice.
After that, we are told, all constraint vanished. Swift, as we know,
could be the very prince of good fellows in his best days and when the
mood was on; and now he entered readily into the life of the place,
devised all manner of jests, and kept Thomastown in a roar. Never, we
are told, were there such days and nights at Thomastown; and those of us
who have more than a superficial acquaintance with Swift can readily
believe it. Soon, all too soon, came the time when Sheridan had to
return to his school. But Swift was not allowed to depart with his
friend; the whole company entreated him to remain; even Mathew himself
for once broke through his rule of never soliciting a guest to stay; and
the upshot of it was that the great man stayed on, and finally, in place
of that wasted fortnight, spent four months, four happy months, as the
guest of Thomastown. Thus, though we know so little of Mathew’s guests,
at least we do know this: he sheltered beneath his roof for more than a
hundred nights one of the greatest intellects of his time; he was
enabled to give some little time of rest and forgetfulness, snatched, as
it were, before the coming of a dreadful darkness, to one of the
greatest and most unhappy spirits known to our literature. That, surely,
was no little thing. Nor did it lack recompense. I have said that
Mathew, this eccentric personage, this king of hosts, was not without
greatness, not yet suitably acknowledged. But I was wrong. For whatever
he did, if the tale holds true, the world repaid him in full, the thanks
of all guests to this greatest of hosts have long ago been given their
voice, and the debt is cleared. For was he not praised by Swift?
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD. THE UNIVERSITY
PRESS, GLASGOW.
* * * * *
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
yet did not hestitate to juggle=> yet did not hesitate to juggle {pg 46}