Swift. Whether 'tis in human Nature I know not, but I am sure 'tis in Ireland; for I found myself hated there sincerely by different People, and for different Reasons. I was actually hated, by all who cou'd help it, but would not or durst not, and by all who wou'd help it themselves and knew not how, and abhorr'd to have it done by others. I was hated by all who long'd to hurt it, but as they cou'd not, detested those that hindered them, and by all who do not Care to have great Examples set them, which they are not fond of following, and lastly by all who neither love any Thing or any body but themselves, their Interests or Pleasures, and who had as believe talk of serving Heaven as their Country. Indeed the common People who come not under these Distinctions, lov'd me well enough to Drink my Health, especially, when I gave them the Liquor; and I doubt not wou'd have accompanied me to the Gallows, with many a zealous Prayer, if I had been Hanged for Writing for them. But at the same Time my Character was revil'd and attack'd with a Number of scandalous Stories, and my Zeal and my Patriotism exposed to Derision; and I was so far from having any Regard shewn me by my Governors, that in a Country where Numbers get Pensions for nothing, and Places for Services that were never done, I was not once offer'd any additional Preferment to my Deanery, and I scorn'd or rather detested not only to Ask, but even to Wish for it, as I vow'd to you before. Most Nations indeed are but too apt to be thankless to their Deliverers, but this above all others, and the Comperit invidiam supremo fine domari, I found too often verified in myself and my Interests; and my Character too frequently and too barbarously insulted when Living; and now when I am laid in my Grave, they are grudging their Half-Crowns, to raise me a Monument, that will not last as many Months, as I writ Pages for them.
Prior. It is an Happiness, if the World proves ungrateful to the great and excellent Persons, who serve and adorn the Age that is blest with them, that they have a scorn for the Opinions of Men, or even their Love or their Hatred, their Preferments, or Honours. It is but a poor Sentiment of the illustrious Xenophon's, 'That Praise is sweet to those, who are Conscious they deserve it;' for on the contrary, I believe most of those, who truly deserve Praise, have look'd on it as the poorest and lowest Reward of well-doing. Great Minds who aim in their best Actions at the Glory of their Maker, and the pleasing that Author of all Good, by labouring to imitate him here below, have superior Views, and do not only look down with a generous Disdain on the Applause of others, as it is really trivial and mean, but also as they know, they never receive it pure, but dash'd with the Malice of Detractors, and the Spleen of those little Souls, who Envy them. As they are Deaf to their Praise, so great Minds from their natural Superiority, bear the Malice of their Enemies with equal Indifference, and strive to Copy after him whom they serve, by smiling at, and over-looking the base Ingratitude of those they have done Good to. I am sensible, Dean, as even your Donations will survive both the World and your own Name, you know from whom to expect your Wages, and when they will be paid you; but really when one considers, what wretched wicked, senseless, Mortals crowd this World, it wou'd make one, out of Countenance to be actuated merely by a Love to themselves and Descendants, without any Regard to him, who has commanded us to assist and befriend them.
Swift. I agree with you entirely; I have observed and studied Mankind too long, not to know the animali Initus & in Cute, and to look on their Service as perfect Slavery. I have lov'd some odd Men in my Time, but the whole Race in a Lump, are a dreadful Carnage of Sins and Infirmities, Errors and Failings, Reason and Passion, that make a kind of Twilight in the best Understandings, that is neither Day nor Night, Knowledge or Ignorance, Vice or Virtue; but a kind of Olio of them all. Even the highest Characters have their weak-sides, and the most refin'd, their Defects and their Failures, with all the Infirmities which Flesh is heir to, and this World where we dwell is apt to taint Men with. Nay I must tell you in some Verses of mine, which never fell into Faulkner's Hands,
Prone to all Ill, the Flesh still warps the Soul,
Hung like a Byass on the devious Bowl.
This gives a worldly Cast to all we do,
Tho' Patriots, Heroes, Saints,——we're Sinners too!
Tho' some quite faultless in their Lives appear,
Yet chain'd to this infectious Dungeon here,
Men small of Earth, like Pris'ners of their Jail,