etters have not lost their
freshness in the lapse of two centuries.

There was a degree of servitude in Swift's position of secretary, which
galled his proud spirit. But Temple, so far from treating him unkindly,
introduced him to the King, and employed him in 'affairs of great
importance.' In 1694 he left Temple, went to Dublin, took holy orders,
and lived as prebend of Kilroot on L100 a year. In 1696 he resigned the
office and returned to Moor Park, where he remained until Sir William
Temple's death, in 1699. There he studied hard, ran up a steep hill
daily for exercise, and cultivated the acquaintance of Esther Johnson,
the 'Stella' destined to take a strange part in Swift's history, then a
mere girl, and a companion of Temple's sister, who lived with him after
his wife's death.

Swift began his literary career by writing Pindaric odes, one of which
led Dryden to say, and the prediction was amply verified, 'Cousin Swift,
you will never be a poet.' Probably no man of genius ever wrote worse
poetry than is to be found in these portentous efforts.

Here is one fair illustration of his flights as an ode writer, and the
reader will not ask for more:

'Were I to form a regular thought of Fame,
Which is perhaps, as hard to imagine right
As to paint Echo to the sight,
I would not draw the idea from an empty name;
Because, alas! when we all die,
Careless and ignorant posterity,
Although they praise the learning and the wit,
And though the title seems to show
The name and man by whom the book was writ,
Yet how shall they be brought to know
Whether that very name was he, or you, or I?
Less should I daub it o'er with transitory praise,
And water-colours of these days:
These days! where e'en th' extravagance of poetry
Is at a loss for figures to express
Men's folly, whimsies, and inconstancy,
And by a faint description makes them less.
Then tell us what is Fame, where shall we search for it?
Look where exalted Virtue and Religion sit,
Enthroned with heavenly Wit!
Look where you see
The greatest scorn of learned Vanity!
(And then how much a nothing is mankind!
Whose reason is weighed down by popular air.
Who, by that, vainly talks of baffling death,
And hopes to lengthen life by a transfusion of breath,
Which yet whoe'er examines right will find
To be an art as vain as bottl