They are but few and meanspirited that live in peace with all
men.
--_Tale of a Tub_
[Illustration: JONATHAN SWIFT]
Birrell, the great English essayist, remarks that, "Of
writing books about Dean Swift there is no end." The reason is plain: of
no other prominent writer who has lived during the past two hundred years
do we know so much. His life lies open to us in many books. Boswell did
not write his biography, but Johnson did. Then followed whole schools of
little fishes, some of whom wrote like whales. But among the works of
genuine worth and merit, with Swift for a subject, we have Sir Walter
Scott's nineteen volumes, and lives by Craik, Mitford, Forster, Collins
and Leslie Stephen.
The positive elements in Swift's character make him a most interesting
subject to men and women who are yet on earth, for he was essentially of
the earth, earthy. And until we are shown that the earth is wholly bad,
we shall find much to amuse, much to instruct, much to admire--aye, much
to pity--in the life of Jonathan Swift.
His father married at twenty. His income matched his years--it was just
twenty pounds per annum. His wife was a young girl, bright, animated,
intelligent.
In a few short months this girl carried in her arms a baby. This baby was
wrapped in a tattered shawl and cried piteously from hunger, for the
mother had not enough to eat. She was cold, and sick, and in disgrace.
Her husband, too, was ill, and sorely in debt. It was Midwinter.
When Spring came, and the flowers blossomed, and the birds mated, and
warm breezes came whispering softly from the South, and all the earth was
glad, the husband of this child-wife was in his grave, and she was alone.
Alone? No; she carried in her tired arms the hungry babe, and beneath her
heart she felt the faint flutter of another life.
But to be in trouble and in Ireland is not so bad after all, for the
Irish people have great and tender hearts; and even if they have not much
to bestow in a material way, they can give sympathy, and they do.
So the girl was cared for by kind kindred, and on November Thirtieth,
Sixteen Hundred Sixty-seven, at Number Seven, Hoey's Court, Dublin, the
second baby was born.
Only a little way from Hoey's Court is Saint Patrick's Cathedral. On that
November day, as the tones from the clanging chimes fell on the weary
senses of the young mother, there in her darkened room, little did she
think that the puny bantling she held to her breast would yet be the Dean
of the great church whose bells she heard; and how could she anticipate a
whisper coming to her from the far-off future: "Of writing books about
your babe there is no end!"
* * * * *
The man-child was given to an old woman to care for, and
he had the ability, even then, it seems, to win affection. The
foster-mother loved him and she stole him away, carrying him off to
England.
Charity ministered to his needs; charity gave him his education. When
Swift was twenty-one years old he went to see his mother. Her means were
scanty to the point of hardship, but so buoyant was her mind that she
used to declare that she was both rich and happy--and being happy she was
certainly rich. She was a rare woman. Her spirit was independent, her
mind cultivated, her manner gentle and refined, and she was endowed with
a keen sense of humor.
From her, the son derived those qualities which have made him famous. No
man is greater than his mother; but the sons of brave women do not always
make brave men. In one quality Swift was lamentably inferior to his
mother--he did not have her capacity for happiness. He had wit; she had
humor.
We have seen how Swift's father sickened and died. The world was too
severe for him, its buffets too abrupt, its burden too heavy, and he gave
up the fight before the battle had really begun. This lack of courage and
extreme sensitiveness are seen in the son. But so peculiar, complex and
wonderful is this web of life, that our very blunders, weaknesses and
mistakes are woven in and make the fabric stronger. If Swift had
possessed only his mother's merits, without his father's faults, he
would never have shaken the world with laughter, and we should never have
heard of him.
In her lowliness and simplicity the mother of Swift was content. She did
her work in her own little way. She smiled at folly, and each day she
thanked Heaven that her lot was no worse. Not so her son. He brooded in
sullen silence; he cursed Fate for making him a dependent, and even in
his youth he scorned those who benefited him. This was a very human
proceeding.
Many hate, but few have a fine capacity for scorn. Their hate is so
vehement that when hurled it falls short. Swift's scorn was a beautifully
winged arrow, with a poisoned tip. Some who were struck did not at the
time know it.
His misanthropy defeated his purpose, thwarted his ambition, ruined his
aims, and--made his name illustrious.
Swift wished for churchly preferment, but he had not the patience to
wait. He imagined that others were standing in his way, and of course
they were; for under the calm exterior of things ecclesiastic, there is
often a strife, a jealousy and a competition more rabid than in commerce.
To succeed in winning a bishopric requires a sagacity as keen as that
required to become a Senator of Massachusetts or the Governor of New
York. The man bides his time, makes himself popular, secures advocates,
lubricates the way, pulls the wires, and slides noiselessly into place.
Swift lacked diplomacy. When matters did not seem to progress he grew
wrathful, seized his pen and stabbed with it. But as he wrote, the
ludicrousness of the whole situation came over him and, instead of
cursing plain curses, he held his adversary up to ridicule! And this
ridicule is so active, the scorn so mixed with wit, the shafts so finely
feathered with truth, that it is the admiration of mankind. Vitriol mixed
with ink is volatile. Then what? We just run Swift through a coarse sieve
to take out the lumps of Seventeenth Century refuse, and then we give him
to children to make them laugh. Surely no better use can be made of
pessimists. Verily, the author of Gulliver wrote for one purpose, and we
use his work for another. He wished for office, he got contempt; he tried
to subdue his enemies, they subdued him; he worked for the present, and
he won immortality.
Said Heinrich Heine, prone on his bed in Paris: "The wittiest sarcasms of
mortals are only an attempt at jesting when compared with those of the
great Author of the Universe--the Aristophanes of Heaven!"
Wise men over and over have wasted good ink and paper in bewailing
Swift's malice and coarseness. But without these very elements which the
wise men bemoan, Swift would be for us a cipher. Yet love is life and
hate is death, so how can spite benefit? The answer is that, in certain
forms of germination, frost is as necessary as sunshine: so some men have
qualities that lie dormant until the coldness of hate bursts the coarse
husk of indifference.
But while hate may animate, only love inspires. Swift might have stood at
the head of the Church of England; but even so, he would be only a unit
in a long list of names, and as it is, there is only one Swift. Mr.
Talmage averred that not ten men in America knew the name of the
Archbishop of Canterbury until his son wrote a certain book entitled
"Dodo." In putting out this volume, young Benson not only gave us the
strongest possible argument favoring the celibacy of the clergy, but at
the same time, if Talmage's statement is correct, he made known his
father's name.
In all Swift's work, save "The Journal to Stella," the animating motive
seems to have been to confound his enemies; and according to the
well-known line in that hymn sung wherever the Union Jack flies, we must
believe this to be a perfectly justifiable ambition. But occasionally on
his pages we find gentle words of wisdom that were meant evidently for
love's eyes alone. There is much that is pure boyish frolic, and again
and again there are clever strokes directed at folly. He has shot certain
superstitions through with doubt, and in his manner of dealing with error
he has proved to us a thing it were well not to forget: that pleasantry
is more efficacious than vehemence.
Let me name one incident by way of proof--the well-known one of
Partridge, the almanac-maker. This worthy cobbler was an astrologer of
no mean repute. He foretold events with much discretion. The ignorant
bought his almanacs, and many believed in them as a Bible--in fact,
astrology was enjoying a "boom."
Swift came to London and found that Partridge's predictions were the
theme at the coffeehouses. He saw men argue and wax wroth, grow red in
the face as they talked loud and long about nothing--just nothing. The
whole thing struck Swift as being very funny; and he wrote an
announcement of his intention to publish a rival almanac. He explained
that he, too, was an astrologer, but an honest one, while Partridge was
an impostor and a cheat; in fact, Partridge foretold only things which
every one knew would come true. As for himself, he could discern the
future with absolute certainty, and to prove to the world his power he
would now make a prophecy. In substance, it was as follows: "My first
prediction is but a trifle; it relates to Partridge, the almanac-maker. I
have consulted the star of his nativity, and find that he will die on the
Twenty-ninth day of March, next." This was signed, "Isaac Bickerstaff,"
and duly issued in pamphlet form. It had such an air of sincerity that
both the believers and the scoffers read it with interest.
The Thirtieth of March came, and another pamphlet from "Isaac
Bickerstaff" appeared, announcing the fulfilment of the prophecy. It
related how toward the end of March Partridge began to languish; how he
grew ill and at last took to his bed, and, his conscience then smiting
him, he confessed to the world that he was a fraud and a rogue, that all
his prophecies were impositions; he then passed away.
Partridge was wild with rage, and immediately replied in a manifesto
declaring that he was alive and well, and moreover was alive on March
Twenty-ninth.
To this "Bickerstaff" replied in a pamphlet more seriously humorous than
ever, reaffirming that Partridge was dead, and closing with the statement
that, "If an uninformed carcass still walks about calling itself
Partridge, I do not in any way consider myself responsible for that."
The joke set all London on a grin. Wherever Partridge went he was met
with smiles and jeers, and astrology became only a jest to a vast number
of people who had formerly believed in it seriously.
When Benjamin Franklin started his "Poor Richard's Almanac," twenty-five
years later, in the first issue he prophesied the death of one Dart who
set the pace at that time as almanac-maker in America. The man was to
expire on the afternoon of October Seventeenth, Seventeen Hundred
Thirty-eight, at three twenty-nine o'clock.
Dart, being somewhat of a joker himself, came out with an announcement
that he, too, had consulted the oracle, and found he would live until
October Twenty-sixth, and possibly longer.
On October Eighteenth, Franklin announced Dart's death, and explained
that it occurred promptly on time, all as prophesied.
Yet Dart lived to publish many almanacs; but Poor Richard got his
advertisement, and many staid, broad-brimmed Philadelphians smiled who
had never smiled before--not only smiled but subscribed.
Benjamin Franklin was a great and good man, as any man must be who
fathers another's jokes, introducing these orphaned children to the world
as his own.
Perhaps no one who has written of Swift knew him so well as Delany. And
this writer, who seems to have possessed a judicial quality far beyond
most men, has told us that Swift was moral in conduct to the point of
asceticism. His deportment was grave and dignified, and his duties as a
priest were always performed with exemplary diligence. He visited the
sick, regularly administered the sacraments, and was never known to
absent himself from morning prayers.
When Harley was Lord Treasurer, Swift seems to have been on the topmost
crest of the wave of popularity. Invitations from nobility flowed in upon
him, beautiful women deigned to go in search of his society, royalty
recognized him. And yet all this time he was only a country priest with a
liking for literature.
Collins tells us that the reason for his popularity is plain: "Swift was
one of the kings of the earth. Like Pope Innocent the Third, like
Chatham, he was one to whom the world involuntarily pays tribute."
His will was a will of adamant; his intellect so keen that it impressed
every one who approached him; his temper singularly stern, dauntless and
haughty. But his wit was never filled with gaiety: he was never known to
laugh. Amid the wildest uproar that his sallies caused, he would sit with
face austere--unmoved.
Personally, Swift was a gentleman. When he was scurrilous, abusive,
ribald, malicious, it was anonymously. Is this to his credit? I should
not say so, but if a man is indecent and he hides behind a "nom de
plume," it is at least presumptive proof that he is not dead to shame.
Leslie Stephen tells us that Swift was a Churchman to the backbone. No
man who is a "Churchman to the backbone" is ever very pious: the spirit
maketh alive, but the letter killeth. One looks in vain for traces of
spirituality in the Dean. His sermons are models of churchly commonplace
and full of the stock phrases of a formal religion. He never bursts into
flame. Yet he most thoroughly and sincerely believed in religion. "I
believe in religion, it keeps the masses in check. And then I uphold
Christianity because if it is abolished the stability of the Church might
be endangered," he said.
Philip asked the eunuch a needless question when he inquired,
"Understandest thou what thou readest?" No one so poorly sexed as Swift
can comprehend spiritual truth: spirituality and sexuality are elements
that are never separated. Swift was as incapable of spirituality as he
was of the "grand passion."
The Dean had affection; he was a warm friend; he was capable even of a
degree of love, but his sexual and spiritual nature was so cold and
calculating that he did not hesitate to sacrifice love to churchly
ambition.
He argued that the celibacy of the Catholic clergy is a wise expediency.
The bachelor physician and the unmarried priest have an influence among
gentle womankind, young or old, married or single, that a benedict can
never hope for. Why this is so might be difficult to explain, but
discerning men know the fact. In truth, when a priest marries he should
at once take a new charge, for if he remains with his old flock a goodly
number of his "lady parishioners," in ages varying from seventeen to
seventy, will with fierce indignation rend his reputation.
Swift was as wise as a serpent, but not always as harmless as a dove. He
was making every effort to secure his miter and crosier: he had many
women friends in London and elsewhere who had influence. Rather than run
the risk of losing this influence he never acknowledged Stella as his
wife. Choosing fame rather than love, he withered at the heart, then died
at the top.
The life of every man is a seamless garment--its woof his thoughts, its
warp his deeds. When for him the roaring loom of time stops and the
thread is broken, foolish people sometimes point to certain spots in the
robe and say, "Oh, why did he not leave that out!" not knowing that
every action of man is a sequence from off Fate's spindle.
Let us accept the work of genius as we find it; not bemoaning because it
is not better, but giving thanks because it is so good.
* * * * *
Well-fed, rollicking priest is Father O'Toole of Dublin,
with a big, round face, a double chin, and a brogue that you can cut with
a knife.
My letter of introduction from Monseigneur Satolli caused him at once to
bring in a large, suspicious, black bottle and two glasses. Then we
talked--talked of Ireland's wrongs and woman's rights, and of all the
Irishmen in America whom I was supposed to know. We spoke of the
illustrious Irishmen who had passed on, and I mentioned a name that
caused the holy father to spring from his chair in indignation.
"Shwift is it! Shwift! No, me lad, don't go near him! He was the divil's
own, the very worsht that ever followed the swish of a petticoat. No, no;
if ye go to his grave it'll bring ye bad luck for a year. It's Tom Moore
ye want--Tom was the bye. Arrah! now, and it's meself phat'll go wid ye."
And so the reverend father put on a long, black coat and his Saint
Patrick's Day hat, and we started. We were met at the gate by a
delegation of "shpalpeens" that had located me on the inside of the house
and were lying in wait.
All American travelers in Ireland are supposed to be millionaires, and
this may possibly explain the lavish attention that is often tendered
them. At any rate, various members of the delegation wished "long life to
the iligant 'merican gintleman," and hinted in terms unmistakable that
pence would be acceptable. The holy father applied his cane vigorously to
the ragged rears of the more presumptuous, and bade them begone, but
still they followed and pressed close about.
"Here, I'll show you how to get rid of the dirty gang," said his
holiness. "Have ye a penny, I don't know?"
I produced a handful of small change, which the father immediately took
and tossed into the street. Instantly there was a heterogeneous mass of
young Hibernians piled up in the dirt in a grand struggle for spoils. It
reminded me of football incidents I had seen at fair Harvard. In the
meantime, we escaped down a convenient alley and crossed the River Liffey
to Old Dublin; inside the walls of the old city, through crooked lanes
and winding streets that here and there showed signs of departed
gentility, where now was only squalor, want and vice, until we came to
Number Twelve Angier Street, a quaint, three-story brick building now
used as a "public." In the wall above the door is a marble slab with this
inscription: "Here was born Thomas Moore, on the Twenty-eighth day of
May, Seventeen Hundred Seventy-eight." Above this in a niche is a bust of
the poet.
Tom's father was a worthy greengrocer who, according to the author of
"Lalla Rookh," always gave good measure and full count. It was ever a
cause of regret to the elder Moore that his son did not show sufficient
capacity to be trusted safely with the business.
The upper rooms of the house were shown to us by an obliging landlady.
Father O'Toole had been here before, and led the way to a snug little
chamber and explained that in this room the future poet of Ireland was
found under one of his father's cabbage-leaves.
We descended to the neat little barroom with its sanded floor and
polished glassware and shining brass. The holy father ordered
'arf-and-'arf at my expense and recited one of Moore's ballads. The
landlady then gave us Byron's "Here's a Health to Thee, Tom Moore." A
neighbor came in. Then we had more ballads, more 'arf-and-'arf, a
selection from "Lalla Rookh," and various tales of the poet's early life,
which possibly would be hard to verify.
And as the tumult raged, the smoke of battle gave me opportunity to slip
away. I crossed the street, turned down one block, and entered Saint
Patrick's Cathedral.
Great, roomy, gloomy, solemn temple, where the rumble of city traffic is
deadened to a faint hum:
"Without, the world's unceasing noises rise,
Turmoil, disquietude and busy fears;
Within, there are the sounds of other years,
Thoughts full of prayer and solemn harmonies
Which imitate on earth the peaceful skies."
Other worshipers were there. Standing beside a great stone pillar I could
make them out kneeling on the tiled floor. Gradually, my eyes became
accustomed to the subdued light, and right at my feet I saw a large
brass plate set in the floor and on it only this:
Swift
Died Oct. 19, 1745
Aged 78
On the wall near is a bronze tablet, the inscription of which, in Latin,
was dictated by Swift himself:
"Here lies the body of Jonathan Swift, Dean of this Cathedral, where
fierce indignation can no longer rend his heart. Go! wayfarer, and
imitate, if thou canst, one who, as far as in him lay, was an earnest
champion of liberty----"
Above this is a fine bust of the Dean, and to the right is another
tablet:
"Underneath lie interred the mortal remains of Mrs. Hester Johnson,
better known to the world as 'Stella,' under which she is celebrated in
the writings of Doctor Jonathan Swift, Dean of this Cathedral. She was a
person of extraordinary endowments and accomplishments, in body, mind and
behavior; justly admired and respected by all who knew her, on account of
her eminent virtues as well as for her great natural and acquired
perfections."
These were suffering souls and great. Would they have been so great had
they not suffered? Who can tell? Were the waters troubled in order that
they might heal the people?
Did Swift misuse this excellent woman, is a question that has been asked
and answered again and again.
A great author has written:
"A woman, a tender, noble, excellent woman, has a dog's heart. She licks
the hand that strikes her. And wrong nor cruelty nor injustice nor
disloyalty can cause her to turn."
Death in pity took Stella first; took her in the loyalty of love and the
fulness of faith from a world which for love has little recompense, and
for faith small fulfilment.
Stella was buried by torchlight, at midnight, on the Thirtieth day of
January, Seventeen Hundred Twenty-eight. Swift was sick at the time, and
wrote in his journal: "This is the night of her funeral, and I am removed
to another apartment that I may not see the light in the church which is
just over against my window." But in his imagination he saw the gleaming
torches as their dull light shone through the colored windows, and he
said, "They will soon do as much for me."
But seventeen years came crawling by before the torches flared, smoked
and gleamed as the mourners chanted a requiem, and the clods fell on the
coffin, and their echoes intermingled with the solemn voice of the priest
as he said, "Dust to dust, ashes to ashes."
In Eighteen Hundred Thirty-five, the graves were opened and casts taken
of the skulls. The top of Swift's skull had been sawed off at the
autopsy, and a bottle in which was a parchment setting forth the facts
was inserted in the head that had conceived "Gulliver's Travels."
I examined the casts. The woman's head is square and shapely. Swift's
head is a refutation of phrenology, being small, sloping and ordinary.
The bones of Swift and Stella were placed in one coffin, and now rest
under three feet of concrete, beneath the floor of Saint Patrick's.
So sleep the lovers joined in death.