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 died.
Then we have the comments of Queen Caroline and Sir Robert and the rejoicings of Grub Street at the chance of passing off rubbish by calling it his. His friends are really touched.
Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay
A week, and Arbuthnot a day,
St. John himself will scarce forbear
To bite his pen and drop a tear,
The rest will give a shrug and cry,
“’Tis pity, but we all must die!”
The ladies talk over it at their cards. They have learnt to show their tenderness, and
Receive the news in doleful dumps.
The dean is dead (pray what is trumps?);
Then, Lord have mercy on his soul!
(Ladies, I’ll venture for the vole).
The poem concludes, as usual, with an impartial character of the dean. He claims, with a pride not unjustifiable, the power of independence, love of his friends, hatred of corruption and so forth; admits that he may have had “too much satire in his vein,” though adding the very questionable assertion that he “lashed the vice but spared the name.” Marlborough, Wharton, Burnet, Steele, Walpole and a good many more might have had something to say upon that head. The last phrase is significant,—
He gave the little wealth he had
To build a house for fools and mad;
And showed by one satiric touch
No nation needed it so much,
That kingdom he hath left his debtor,
I wish it soon may have a better!
For some years, in fact, Swift had spent much thought and time in arranging the details of this bequest. He ultimately left about 12,000l., with which, and some other contributions, St. Patrick’s Hospital was opened for fifty patients in the year 1757.
The last few years of Swift’s life were passed in an almost total eclipse of intellect. One pathetic letter to Mrs. Whiteway gives almost the last touch. “I have been very miserable all night, and to-day extremely deaf and full of pain. I am so stupid and confounded that I cannot express the mortification I am under both of body and mind. All I can say is that I am not in torture; but I daily and hourly expect it. Pray let me know how your health is and your family. I hardly understand one word I write. I am sure my days will be very few, for miserable they must be. If I do not blunder, it is Saturday, July 26, 1740. If I live till Monday, I shall hope to see you, perhaps for the last time.” Even after this he occasionally showed gleams of his former intelligence, and is said to have written a well-known epigram during an outing with his attendants:—
Behold a proof of Irish sense!
Here Irish wit is seen!
When nothing’s left that’s worth defence
They build a magazine.