“The fame of his valor,” he adds, “is much more appreciated by strangers than by his kinsmen.”
Upon the other farther side of the church, between the tombs of the Right Honorable Lady Elizabeth, Viscountess Donneraile, and Archbishop Whately, the gentleman who wrote the rhetoric we studied at college, is buried the body of an humble Irishman, who was Dean Swift’s body servant for a generation. He was eccentric but loyal, and as witty as his master. One morning the dean, getting ready for a horseback ride, discovered that his boots had not been cleaned, and called to Sandy:
“Why didn’t you clean these boots?”
“It hardly pays to do so, sir,” responded Sandy, “they get muddy so soon again.”
“Put on your hat and coat and come with me to ride,” said the dean.
“I haven’t had my breakfast,” said Sandy.
“There’s no use in eating; you’ll be hungry so soon again,” retorted the dean, and Sandy had to follow him in a mad gallop into the suburbs of Dublin without a mouthful.
When they were three or four miles away they met an old friend who asked them where they were going so early. Before the dean could answer, Sandy replied:
“We’re going to heaven, sir; the dean’s praying and meself is fasting; both of us for our sins.”
The epitaph of Sandy in St. Patrick’s Cathedral reads as follows: