The father of Jonathan Swift was a Dublin lawyer who died just as he was
beginning what might have been a profitable career, and before his only
son was born. The widow was left with so little money that when her son
was born in November, 1667, she was not able to take care of him. Her
brother-in-law undertook to provide for mother and child.
He procured a nurse who became so attached to her little charge that
when she received a small sum of money from a relative in England and
was compelled to go to that country, she stole the baby and took him
with her across the channel. It was more than three years before
Jonathan was brought back to Dublin, but he had been tenderly cared for,
and though but five years of age had been taught to spell and to read in
the Bible.
A year later he was sent to a good school, where he made rapid progress.
However, he could not have been always studious, for visitors to the
school are still shown a desk in which his name is deeply cut.
He was fourteen years old when he entered the University of Dublin,
where his record was not a very satisfactory one. When it came time for
him to graduate, his standing was too poor for him to take his degree,
but after some delay it was given him "by special favor," a term then
used in Dublin to show that a candidate did not pass in his
examinations.
After this, Swift remained three years at the University under the
pretense of studying, but he was chiefly notorious for his connection
with a gang of wild and disobedient students who were often under
censure of the faculty for their irregularities. For one offense Swift
was severely censured and compelled upon his knees to beg pardon of the
dean. This punishment he did not forgive, and long afterward he wrote
bitter things about Dr. Allen, the dean.
Yet while indulging in these follies, Swift learned to write well and
became noted for a peculiar satirical style that afterward made him much
feared by the government.
When the uncle who had first supported Swift had died, a second uncle
and his son took up the burden. At one time this cousin sent Swift quite
a large sum of money, a fact which seemed to change the nature of the
wild young spendthrift, who thereafter remained economical; in fact, he
became niggardly in his saving.
Swift's second degree from the University was earned creditably, and he
was much pleased with the praise and respect with which he was received.
This was owing to two years of diligent study which he spent at the home
of Sir William Temple, a leading statesman of the time and a distant
relative by marriage of Swift's mother.
Discouraged by his fruitless attempt to enter public life, he began to
study for the ministry, and, ultimately, he received a church
appointment, of which he wearied after a short experience.
Until 1710, he led a varied life, sometimes dependent upon his
relatives, and at others making his way in various political positions.
From the date above he was embroiled in heated political controversies
in which his bitter writings made him feared even by his friends and
fiercely hated by his enemies. But he steadily rose in power and
influence, and when his party triumphed he was rewarded for his
political services by being appointed dean of Saint Patrick's Cathedral
in Ireland.
His appointment was exceedingly unpopular, even in Ireland, for few
believed him at all suited for a position in the church, much less for
one so high and important. On the day he was installed, some bitter
verses, of which the following are three, were found posted on the door
of the cathedral:
To-day this temple gets a dean,
Of parts and fame uncommon;
Used both to pray and to profane,
To serve both God and Mammon.
* * * * *
This place he got by wit and rhyme,
And many ways most odd;
And might a bishop be in time,
Did he believe in God.
* * * * *
And now when'er his deanship dies,
Upon his tomb be graven--
A man of God here buried lies,
Who never thought of heaven.
Unfortunately there was too much truth in the charges against Swift's
character, and his career, in spite of his genius, is a pitiful one. He
was admired for his wit and brilliancy, and courted by the noble and
powerful, but he was never able to gratify his ambitions, though he did
secure many devoted friends. From his disappointments he became moody,
bitter and discontented. This state of mind, together with other causes,
finally broke his health, destroyed his mind and left him but the sad
wreck of a brilliant manhood, and an old age of helpless imbecility.
Such a life has little that is attractive for anyone, but it does show
us that even a brilliant intellect cannot save a man who persistently
neglects to guard his character, and that fame does not always bring
happiness.
But Swift was by no means all bad, and his great services to Ireland are
still deservedly recognized by that devoted people. He really laid the
foundation for their prosperity and may be said to have created
constitutional liberty for them.
It is, however, as a wit and a writer that Swift is now chiefly famous.
Many are the stories told of his readiness in repartee, his bright
sallies in conversation, and of his skill in quick and caustic rhyming.
It is said that one day, when traveling in the south of Ireland, he
stopped to give his horse water at a brook which crossed the road; a
gentleman of the neighborhood halted for the same purpose, and saluted
him, a courtesy which was politely returned. They parted, but the
gentleman, struck by the dean's figure, sent his servant to inquire who
the man was. The messenger rode up to the dean and said, "Please, sir,
master would be obliged if you would tell him who you are."
"Willingly," replied the dean. "Tell your master I am the person that
bowed to him when we were giving our horses water at the brook yonder."
[Illustration: JONATHAN SWIFT 1667-1745]
Swift's interests lay rather with the common people than with the Irish
aristocracy, who, he thought, were arrant "grafters." Of one in
particular he said,
"So great was his bounty--
He erected a bridge--at the expense of the county."
The last thing Swift wrote was an epigram. It was in almost the final
lucid interval between periods of insanity that he was riding in the
park with his physician. As they drove along, Swift saw, for the first
time, a building that had recently been put up.
"What is that?" he inquired.
"That," said the physician, "is the new magazine in which are stored
arms and powder for the defence of the city."
"Oh!" said the dean, pulling out his notebook. "Let me take an item of
that; this is worth remarking: 'My tablets!' as Hamlet says, 'my
tablets! Memory put down that.'" Then he scribbled the following lines,
the last he ever penned:
"Behold a proof of Irish sense!
Here Irish wit is seen!
When nothing's left that's worth defence,
We build a magazine."
With the exception of _Gulliver's Travels_, very
little that Dean Swift wrote is now read by anyone
but students.