APPENDIX XII.

ORIGINAL LETTERS FROM THE MSS. IN THE POSSESSION OF THE EARL OF CORK

THESE letters, for which I am indebted to the kindness of the Earl of Cork, have been quoted frequently in the narrative of Swift's last years. But a few additional extracts will have interest, as throwing light on Swift's occupations and moods during these years. Every one of the letters expresses as strongly as possible his regard for Lord Orrery. The first extract is from a letter of March 22, 1733.

"I had this minute a letter from England telling me that excise on tobacco is passed, 265 against 204, which was a greater number of sitters than I can remember. It is concluded they will go on in another session to farther articles, and then you will have the honor to be a slave in two kingdoms. Here is a pamphlet just come out in defence of the excise, it was reprinted here by a rascal from England, in a great office and at his own charge, to pave the way for the same proceeding here but I hope our members will think they are slaves enough already and perhaps somebody or other may be tempted to open folk's eyes.

"I sent the Epitaph* on Mr. Gay to Mrs. B- to be copied for your Lordship, and I think there are some lines that might and should be corrected. I am going to write to the author, and shall tell him my opinion.

I

agree with your Lordship that his imitation of Horace is one of the best things he hath lately writ: and he tells me himself, that he never took more pains than in his Poem to Lord Bathurst upon the use of riches: nor less than in this, which however his friends call his chef d'œuvre, although he writ it in two mornings, and this may happen when a poet lights upon a fruitful hint, and becomes fond of it. I have often thought that hints were owing as much to good fortune as to invention. And I have sometimes chid poor Mr. Gay for dwelling too long upon a hint (as he did in the sequel of the Beggar's Opera, and this unlucky posthumous production.)† He hath likewise left a second part of fables, of which I prophesy no good. I have been told that few painters can copy their own originals to perfection. And I believe the first thoughts on a subject that occurs to a poet's imagination are usually the most natural * * * * A stupid beast in London, one Alexander Burnet (I suppose the Bishop's son) has parodied Mr. Pope's satirical imitation in a manner that makes

*The epitaph by Pope in Westminster Abbey, beginning "Of manners gentle, of affections mild."

66

+ The sequel was Polly the "posthumous production," the opera of Achilles.

me envy Mr. Pope for having such an adversary, than whose performance nothing can be more low and scurrilous."

The next extract is from a letter of July 17th, 1735.

"MY LORD,

*

I am like a desperate debtor, who keeps out of the way as much as he can; and want of health in my case is equal to want of money or of honesty in the other. I have been some months settling my perplexed affairs, like a dying man, and like the dying man, pestered with continual interruptions as well as difficulties. I have now finished my will in form, wherein I have settled my whole fortune on the city, in trust for building and maintaining an Hospital for idiots and lunatics, by which I save the expense of a chaplain, and almost of a physician, so that I now want only the circumstance of health to be very idle, and a constant correspondent, but no further than upon trifles. As to writing in verse or prose I am a real king, for I never had so many good subjects in my life; and the more a king, because like all the rest of my rank (except K. George) I am so bad a governor of them, that I do not regard what becomes of them, nor hath any single one among them thrived under me these three years past. My greatest loss is that of my viceroy Trifler Sheridan. * * Our Bishop Rundle is not yet come over, and I believe his chaplain Philips is in a reasonable fright that his patron may fall sooner than any living in the diocese; I suppose it is Trim Tram betwixt both, for neither of them have three pennyworth of stamina. If there be any merry company in this town, I am an utter stranger to the persons and places, except when half a score come to sponge on me every Sunday evening. Dr. Helsham is as arrogant as ever, and Dr. Delany costs two thirteens to be visited in wet weather, by which I should be out of pocket nine pence when I dine with him.-This moment (Wednesday, six o'clock evening, July 16th) Mr. Philips sent me word that he landed with his bishop this morning, and hath sent me two volumes of poetry just reeking, by one John Hughes, Esq. † * * * * I have been turning over Squire Hughes's poems, and his puppy publisher, one Duncomb's, preface and life of the author. This is all your fault. I am put out of all patience to the present set of whifflers, and their newfangled politeness. Duncomb's preface is fifty pages upon celebrating a fellow I never once heard of in my life, though I lived in London most of the time that Duncomb makes him floursh. Duncomb put a short note in loose paper to make me a present of the two volumes, and desired my pardon for putting my name among the subscribers. I was in a rage when I looked and found my name; but was a little in countenance when I saw your Lordship's there too. The verses and prose are such as our

Whom he speaks of, in a letter to Pope, as "too grave a poet for me."

Dublin third-rate rhymers might write just the same for nine hours a day till the coming of Antichrist. I wish I could send them to you by post for your punishment. Pray my Lord as you ride along compute how much the desolation and poverty of the people have increased since your last travels through your dominions. Although I fancy we suffer a great deal more twenty miles round Dublin, than in the remoter parts, except your city of Cork, who are starving (I hope) by their own villany. Since you left the town there hath not been one riot either in the University nor among the Cavan Bail,* which causeth a great dearth of news, nay not so much as a review, and but two or three bloody murders. * * * * I called at my Lady Acheson's, and in came Philips very hearty, and has some excellent stories piping hot from London, which I have entreated him to send you. His Bishop is full of disease, but Philips pronounces him the best man alive, and he does not value the chaplainship the thousandth part so much as the agreeable manner that it was given. This you will agree to be a compliment perfectly new, as new as any of my Polite Conversation. I will hold you no longer, but remain, My dear Lord, with more expression than the remainder of this paper will hold, Ever your, etc.,

J. S."

On Sept. 25th, 1735, he writes:

"Sheridan staid here not above ten days, all which he passed abroad, and only lay at the Deanery. He boasts in every letter of the fine air and meat and ale of Cavan, and the honest merry neighbourhood. He writes me English Latinized, and Latin Englyfied, but neither of them equal to mine, as my very enemies allow. It is true indeed, I am gone so far in this science that I can hardly write common English, I am so apt to mingle it with Latin. For instance, instead of writing, my enemies I was going to spell it mi en emis. **** I was to sign a report of a Committee at the Blue-Coat Hospital just now; but would not do it till the words mob and behave were altered to rabble and behaved themselves. Curse on your new-fangled London wits, misti lis† corrupted, and you, out of spite, will in your next letter torment me with sho'dn't, wo’dn't, be'n't, can't, cu'dn't."

On March 31st, 1737, he writes:

"MY DEAR LORD:

I am so busy a person in State affairs, that I cannot endure to read country letters. I have, indeed, some faint remembrance that I received a letter from you about four days ago, and another about as many days sooner. Confound that jade Fortune who did not make me a

The mob in St. Patrick's Liberty was called the Cavan or Kevin Bail.

I.e. "my style is."

lord, although it were of [Ireland; I should have been above the little embranglements into which I put myself. The thing was this. A great flood of halfpence from England hath rolled in upon us by the politics of the Primate.* I railed at them to Faulkner, who printed an advertisement naming me, and my ill-will towards them; for which he was called before the Council, was terribly abused, but not sent to prison, only left to the mercy of the common law for publishing a libel, for so they called his paragraph. I expected to have the same honour of attending their -ships; I sent off all my papers, as I have often done; but their honours have not meddled further, and the halfpence must pass. I quarrel not at the coin, but at the indignity of not being coined here, and the loss of £12,000 in gold and silver to us, which, for aught I know, may be half our store. I am told by others as well as your Lordship that the city of Cork hath sent me my Silver box and Freedom, but I know nothing of it. I am sorry there are not fools enough in Cork to keep you out of the spleen. Have you got any money from your tenants? Can you lend me a thousand pounds? Are you forced to diet and lodge? Or, if I visit you about two, can you give me a chicken and a pint of wine? It was your pride to refuse £100 that I offered to lend you when I thought you were in want; can you now do me the same civility? But I scorn to accept it! Mrs. Whiteway found £60 in my cabinet, besides some few (but very small) banker's bills. When I get my Cork box, I will certainly sell it for not being gold. **** I desire your Aldermen would begin with gold, and if any mischief should happen, let them send another eighteen times and 50 grains heavier in silver."

He turns aside to send some civil messages from Mrs. Whiteway, and to ask Lord Orrery to come and see him, that he may take "an eternal farewell" of him: and thus describes his own state. "I am daily losing ground, both in health and spirits. I am plagued this month with a noise in my head which deafens me, and some touches of giddiness-my old disorders. I am fretting at universal public mismanagement."

After some inquiries as to Lord Orrery's health, he goes on :—

"My neighbour Prelate, who politicly makes his court to Sir R. W. by imitating that great minister in every minute pulling up of his breeches-this prelate, I say-as parsons say "I say "-harangued my neighbours against me under the name of some wicked man about the new halfpence, but received no other answers than "God bless the

"

"It is

He has no news, he says, nor can Mrs. Whiteway give him any. now the last day of March, and I have not one scheme to make a

Archbishop Boulter. See p. 419.

† Swift acknowledged the receipt of the Freedom in a silver box, on the 15th of August this year. But he was offended that there was no inscription stating the

grounds of the presentation, and returned it accordingly. His anger was appeased by a suitable inscription being afterwards engraved upon the box.

Presumably the Drapier.

hundred fools to morrow.* Mrs. Whiteway is just gone down stairs, but I expect her every moment up: and that she is gathering materials at the street-door gate. I had yesterday a letter from my old friend Lord Carteret, who says not a syllable to confirm what we hear from England, that Walpole and Mr. Pulteney are become friends, and both to be made Lords which I scarce believe because the first might have been a Duke many years ago, if it had been possible to govern the Parliament without him."

On the 2nd of July, 1737, Swift sends the Preface to the History of the Four Last Years to Lord Orrery, with this letter:

"MY DEAR LORD:

I have corrected the enclosed as well as my shattered head was able. I entreat your Lordship will please to alter whatever you have a mind, and please to deliver it, with your own hand, to Doctor King, at his Chambers in the Temple. If you sail on Monday, I fear you will not have time to see me, so I must bid you Farewell for ever. For although you should stay a day or two longer you will be in too great a hurry for me to expect you. May God protect you in h(appiness †) and the continuance in the Love and Esteem of (all good) men. I can hear something better, but my head is very ill, but in all conditions I will live and die with the truest Respect, Esteem, Love, and Attachment, Your most obedient and most

Obliged Serv1.

J. SWIFT."

On Nov. 26th of the same year, he writes about some lawsuit in which a friend is interested, and closes thus :

"I am grown an entire Ghost of a Ghost of what I was, although you left me ill enough. Pray God bless you in every circumstance of yourself, your Family and Fortune.

"I could tell you a Million things relating to this country: of the great plenty of money, by the Primate's scheme of the lowering of the Gold, which its younger brother silver hath followed, and neither have been seen since. I could be more large upon both Houses and all their good actions. Pray send me a silver sixpence by the first opportunity. Pray God preserve you and your family, my dear Lord, and may you live till Christian times."

On Feb. 2, 173, he writes again, and in the course of the letter, upbraids Lord Orrery with considerable warmth.

"I complain of your Lordship upon one Article.

Mrs. Whiteway

assures me, that a correct copy of the History of the Four Last Years, &c.,

The Journal to Stella shows us that All Fools' Day was not always so

unobserved by Swift.

The paper is here torn.