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naturally not good, became violent and irascible, and his friends were driven from him by his avarice and ill nature, He finally sunk, as he had long anticipated, into madness of a most unhappy character, and literally " expired a driveller and a shew." His fortune, which was considerable, he left to build an hospital for lunatics. In his own time, Swift was in Ireland placed by his party and patriotic writings on the very pinnacle of popularity, and incurred in England, what is next to fame, violent persecution. He is now better known as the author of the TALE OF A TUB, and of the inimitable TRAVELS OF GULLIVER. His prose style is considered a model of simplicity, force, and perspicuity. Passing over his well-known works, and his sermons and pamphlets, we find an unspeakable charm in his nonsensical, kindly, and familiar journals, kept for Mrs Johnson and her female friend, and written in what he calls “the little language;" and in such effusiouis as “ Mary the Cook-Maid's Petition,” and “ Hamilton Bawn.”

This severe, stern, and ambitious politician and vindictive party-writer, who was not apt to forgive, and who was never known to smile, appears in this easy undress of his mind in a light so engaging, and almost soft, that we cease to wonder at the attachments he inspired, and at the singular power which he held over two accomplished women, and a wide circle of devoted and even enthusiastic admirers and friends.

M 2


Occasioned by reading the following Maxim in Rochefou.

cault,-" Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous

trouvons toujours quelque chose qui ne nous deplait pas." In the adversity of our best friends, we always find some

thing that doth not displease us.

As Rochefoucault his maxims drew
From nature, I believe them true :
They argue no corrupted mind
In him ; the fault is in mankind.

This maxim more than all the rest
Is thought too base for human breast :
“ In all distresses of our friends,
We first consult our private ends ;
While nature, kindly bent to ease us,
Points out some circumstance to please us."

To all my foes, dear Fortune, send
Thy gifts ; but never to my friend :
I tamely can endure the first;
But this with envy makes me burst.

Thus much may serve by way of proem ;
Proceed we therefore to our poem.

The time is not remote when I
Must by the course of nature die ;
When, I foresee, my special friends,
Will try to find their private ends :
And, though 'tis hardly understood
Which way my death can do them good,
Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak :
“ See how the Dean begins to break !
Poor gentleman, he droops apace!
You plainly find it in his face.

That old vertigo in his head
Will never leave him till he's dead.
Besides, his memory decays :
He recollects not what he says ;
He cannot call his friends to mind;
Forgets the place where last he dined :
Plies you with stories o’er and o'er,
He told them fifty times before.
How does he fancy we can sit
To hear his out-of-fashion wit?
But he takes up with younger folks,
Who for his wine will bear his jokes.
Faith! he must make his stories shorter,
Or change his comrades once a quarter ;
In half the time he talks them round,
There must another set be found.

" For poetry, he's past his prime:
He takes an hour to find a rhyme ;
His fire is out, his wit decay'd,
His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade.
I'd have him throw away his pen ;
But there's no talking to some men !”

And then their tenderness appears
By adding largely to my years :
66 He's older than he would be reckon'd,
And well remembers Charles the Second.
He hardly drinks a pint of wine ;
And that, I doubt, is no good sign.
His stomach, too, begins to fail :
Last year we thought him strong and hale ;
But now he's quite another thing :
I wish he may hold out till spring !"
They hug themselves, and reason thus:
“ It is not yet so bad with us !”

In such a case, they talk in tropes,
And by their fears express their hopes.
Some great misfortune to portend,
No enemy can match a friend.
With all the kindness they profess,
The merit of a lucky guess
(When daily how-d'-ye's come of course,
And servants answer, “ Worse and worse !")
Would please them better, than to tell,
That, “ God be praised, the Dean is well.”
Then he who prophesied the best,
Approves his foresight to the rest :
- You know I always fear'd the worst,
And often told you so at first.”
He'd rather choose that I should die,
Than his predictions prove a lie.
Not one foretels I shall recover ;
But, all agree to give me over.

Yet should some neighbour feel a pain
Just in the parts where I complain ;
How many a message would he send !
What hearty prayers that I should mend !
Inquire what regimen I kept ;
What gave me ease, and how I slept ?
And more lament when I was dead,
Than all the snivellers round my bed.

My good companions, never fear ;
For, though you may mistake a year,
Though your prognostics run too fast,
They must be verify'd at last.

Behold the fatal day arrive ! “ How is the Dean ?'-" He's just alive.” Now the departing prayer is read ; He hardly breathes—The Dean is dead.

Before the passing-bell begun, The news through half the town is run. “Oh! may we all for death prepare ! What has he left ? and who's his heir ?" 66 I know no more than what the news is ; 'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses.' To public uses ! there's a whim ! What had the public done for him ? Mere envy, avarice, and pride : He gave it all—but first he dy'd. And had the Dean, in all the nation, No worthy friend, no poor relation ? So ready to do strangers good, Forgetting his own flesh and blood !"

Now Grub-street wits are all employ'd ; With elegies the town is cloy'd : Some paragraph in every paper, To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.

The doctors, tender of their fame, Wisely on me lay all the blame. " We must confess his case was nice ; But he would never take advice. Had he been ruled, for aught appears, He might have lived these twenty years : For, when we open'd him, we found That all his vital parts were sound.”

From Dublin soon to London spread, 'Tis told at court, “ The Dean is dead.” And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen, Runs laughing up to tell the Queen. The Queen, so gracious, mild, and good, Cries, " Is he gone ? 'tis time he should. He's dead, you say

then let him rot. I'm glad the medals were forgot.

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