possible; but it may be forgiven by those who recognise some of the noblest of qualities soured by hard experience. Swift was a man of proud and masterful nature doomed to dependence on weaker men; suffering till past middle life from hope deferred, and, after a brief gleam of triumph, sent, with all his ambitions crushed, to eat his heart out in exile. His strongest personal affections involved him in a tragedy; the country which he had served most generously seemed to be sinking into ruin under the system which he had denounced. His writings are a record of his moods. The early ‘Tale of a Tub’ and ‘Battle of the Books’ express the scorn of a vigorous youth for effete pedantry. But he had not, like his contemporaries, any faith in the advent of a reign of ‘common sense.’ The apparently sceptical tendency of his ridicule of mysterious dogmas was balanced by his utter scorn for the capacities of the race. He believed most unequivocally in the corruption of human nature, and inferred the practical necessity of a religion to restrain immorality. The ‘Scorn of Fools,’ which he confesses in an early poem, is never absent. He could be both humorous and really playful when in good spirits with congenial society; but his humour has almost always a sardonic tinge. He never shows the gentle kindliness which gives the charm to the writings of Addison. This characteristic attitude to society is indicated in the singular collections for the history of social follies, begun at an early period, which were ultimately published in the ‘Polite Conversations’ and the ‘Directions to Servants.’ His fun is always tinged with contempt, and he is absolutely incapable of pitying his victims. This singular combination culminates in ‘Gulliver's Travels,’ which varies so strangely from the simple ingenuity displayed in working out the problem of Lilliput, to the intense bitterness which culminates in the ‘Struldbrugs.’ A similar contrast appears in the ‘Drapier's Letters.’ The earlier political pamphlets are admirable, and the ‘Conduct of the Allies’ in particular a masterpiece of its kind. The whole aim of the author is to strike an effective blow, not to expound any general principles. It shows Swift's intensely practical character. He cares nothing for abstract principles, and is simply a man of most powerful common-sense uttering the strong prejudices which are part of himself. The sincerity is palpable, although the selfish element gave colour to the charge of ‘ratting,’ sufficiently discussed above. This is equally obvious in the ‘Drapier's Letters,’ in which is embodied all the passionate resentment accumulated in ten years of exile. It is as easy to attribute the wrath to hatred of Walpole as to hatred of oppression; Swift appears as an Irish patriot, and yet claims to be a thorough Englishman, and speaks in the name of the dominant race. He was really unable to distinguish between the two impulses, which happened to coincide. It is bare justice, however, to admit that, if his eyes were opened by personal antipathy, he saw most clearly the really bad side of his enemies, and that his indignation, however roused, was as genuine as intense. The same peculiarity appears in his personal relations and in the poems suggested by them. Nobody could be a warmer friend, but it was on condition that his friends should be part of himself. He annexed other persons rather than attracted them. Hence follows one painful characteristic. The suffering from the loss overbalances for him the happiness from the love. He almost curses the friendship which has caused the pain; with the ‘inverted hypocrisy’ often ascribed to him, he habitually regards his best feelings as the cause of his misfortunes, and disavows or laments their existence. It is this unique combination of an ‘intense and glowing mind’ with narrow prejudices, and the perversion of a deeply affectionate nature with a kind of double selfishness, which gives enduring interest to so many of Swift's utterances. His insight is as keen as it is one-sided, and his genuine hatred of vice and folly seems always to be tinctured with a recognition of the futility in this world of virtue or wisdom. Swift's works, by the insertion of the life, the ‘Journal,’ and the letters, fill nineteen volumes in Scott's edition. The greatest part of these is occupied partly by the historical writings—which, written in times of repression and without the stimulus of an immediate practical purpose, are languid, though giving some interesting facts—and partly by the miserable trifles with which he killed time in later years, and which, though Fox thought them a proof of ‘good-nature,’ are to most readers melancholy illustrations of the waste of great faculties by a man dying ‘like a poisoned rat in a hole.’ Such people will hold that the fire would have been the best editor.
Swift's works, with the exception of the letter upon the correction of the language in 1712, were all anonymous. A great number of trifles are attributed to him, some of which he may only have corrected or suggested, while others may be not his at all. Many were published surreptitiously; collections were made without authority, and the editors of his works added many pieces without assigning any reasons. Confusion is caused by
