A Dialogue Between Dean Swift and Tho. Prior, Esq. / In the Isles of St. Patrick's Church, Dublin, On that / Memorable Day, October 9th, 1753

by Anonymous

Swift. I think you have borrowed some of their sort of Spite, for you seem to be in a great Fury with little Reason for it. But I must tell you, Sir, though those Authors were ever mistaken when they called me a Jacobite, I never was in the wrong when I called them Fools. As for your political Secrets, let me be allowed to set you right, for I assure you there are no such Things in England. Men are such sievish leaky Mortals there, that they can't conceal even their own Rogueries; for political Secrets told to Britons, tho' under Vows of Secrecy, are like Bonds for great Sums seal'd in private, but Judgment is soon enter'd up in the public Offices; and all the World knows in a trice what has pass'd. As for the kind Hints those Writers Honoured me with, I assure you, Sir, I despised them as sincerely as your Anger now. Their Talents were incapable of hurting any but themselves, and therefore I forgave them, as the Law pardons Children and Ideots. It is true, where their Spite appeared very invenom'd, I took other Measures; for then, as the Statute speaks of Boys, Malitia suplet ætatem (Malice supplies their Want of Age) and I pepper'd them off notwithstanding their Folly, to frighten silly Scribblers from playing with such edg'd Tools again. But after all, what were their Works against me, but a mere hot Hash of cold Meat, of fifty half read political Authors, and unknown common-place Party-Writers, mix'd up with common Reports, and a few insipid lifeless Scraps of their own tasteless Trash and factious Venom.

Prior. We that are dead and love Truth, know that most Books, and especially Party Books are made like their Paper of old Scraps and Rags pickt up here and there; but however, their Works in those Days pleased the World, had an infinite number of Applauders, and made you sufficiently jealous of the Talents of their Authors.

Swift. I jealous! I detest, I renounce the Thought! I was never jealous of any Man but my self, lest I should fall short of that Glory, which I knew I had gained, and feared I might lose again. I ever judg'd when a Man has wrote a good Book, he should Stop as Jupiter did when he begot Hercules, left his next Production, should be found vastly beneath the former; and therefore I was as suspicious of my scribling Temper, as Physicians say an over-fed Glutton should be of his Finger's Ends. But I scorn'd my Antagonists too much, to be jealous of them, or even to be Angry with them; for tho' they abused me very Generally and very Grosly, my chief Delight was, that they never reviled me so much as when I was in my greatest Glory, as Dogs never are so apt to Bark at the Moon, as when she is at the Full. Besides, let me tell you, testy Sir, with the old Poet Nomina mille, mille nocendi Artes. 'Tis so easy to be malicious, and at the same time so mean, that true Worth never Triumphs so eminently over its Enemies, as when they expose their Weakness and Envy by reviling it. It is true, many Scriblers busied themselves with Criticising and Decrying my Works; but they were so far from disturbing me, I made the best Use of them, by improving my Productions; for Criticks to good Writers, are like their own Dust to Diamonds, good for nothing but just to polish them, and them only. I Jealous! No really, Sir, there was no Occasion for it; the very Wit of my Writings kept all the laughing Part of Mankind on my Side, and I never lived in any Times where reasoning was much regarded by the common Herd of Readers or Talkers.

Prior. A pretty Confession for an Author, Truly! and yet since you have stirred my Gall, I must tell you, that we may say of the brightest of your Writings, what I said in one of my Exercises at School of Mr. Cowlry.

With all the Graces, all the Faults of Wit,

You both adorn'd and blemisht all you writ.

I am sure you had often such a quick running hand way of thinking, that you frequently left your meaning behind you. But I am not angry enough to make any severe Remarks of my own, on the numerous Tracts you gave the World; but there was one Objection every one agreed in, and that was your banishing Divinity out of all your Compositions, and indeed out of your Conversation; so that it should seem Mr. Dean, if I am such a wretched Politician as you say, I may as fairly and more truly tell you, that you have not shewn your self a very able Divine.

Swift. I smile at the Weakness of the Objection, but I am quite delighted with the Malice of it. Let me tell you, Sir, I had something else to do with my Divinity, than filling Pamphlets with it to make madmen Merry, and wisemen Sick. There is a Decency, or shall I rather say a Chastity in Writing or Thinking on such exalted Subjects, that great Minds are apt to Cherish, which keeps them Cautious and Diffident, where weak Men are as bold and as rash (to use an homely Phrase) as a blind Mare in a Mire. I have known many silly Preachers, and paperscull'd Writers in my Time, that were troubled with the Divinity Squirt, and were forc'd to print, or to be tormented with the Cholick, or foul themselves; and so they exposed their Nakedness to the World, with all their Rhapsodies of dreaming Thoughts, borrowed Sense, and hearsay Learning. I was none of those High Dutch Inkshiters as somebody calls them; and instead of sending my Religion to the Press to make other Men frantick, I kept mine at home to keep my self Sober. As to the rest of your Objection, Sir, I must confess I did not talk much of Divinity, nor did I love to hear others bring it into Conversation; for it was always my Opinion, that tho' Divinity and Piety are at home in the Church and the Closet, yet every where else they are used as Strangers, and should be treated with the highest Respect and Ceremony. The Practice Men have fallen into, of over-writing and over-talking themselves on such Subjects, has done and is doing such harm in the World, that I wonder it has not been hist out of it; but there are some Persons so fond of haranguing, declaiming and setting out their Noise to the Crowd, that if they wrote on Geometry or Algebra, they would flourish and use Tropes and Figures to shew their Parts and their Eloquence, and so in spite of all Advice and Experience, Divinity and Religion must be bother'd out of their Senses by Praters and Scriblers and half Thinkers.

But prithee Tom, let my Divinity alone. Why should you strive to vex me by throwing Dirt at me now, tho' you know I was never disturbed by such impotent Petulance, when I was above Ground; or else I had Revilers enough to make me as Sick of Ireland, after all the Service I had done it by my Pen, as ever King William was of England, after he had delivered it by his Sword. But let us put an End to this ugly Brawl, which even the Passion and Impudence of the living might blush at. It is a shame Tom, for old Friends to Quarrel for such miserable Trifles, and for the dead to grow so angry at them; puts us in as bad a Light, as the half-witted Fools that are still crawling on the Earth. Prithee be calm and cool as the Grave ought to make you, and let us agree to drop this fit of ill Humour, and I shall make you a Proposal that I hope will give you the highest Pleasure. If you will lay aside your Resentment for my abusing your Schemes, I will offer you one, that if ever it comes to be embraced, will make Ireland one of the fortunate Islands.

Prior. Make me Master of that important Secret, and convince me of its being probable and practicable, and my anger is over in an Instant, like an Infant's. Dear Dean, you rejoyce my Heart with the very hint you have dropt, and let me beg of you to communicate the whole to me.