c society was in a strange disordered
condition, and the State was ravaged by other condottieri. The Boyne was
being fought and won, and lost--the bells rung in William's victory, in
the very same tone with which they would have pealed for James's. Men
were loose upon politics, and had to shift for themselves. They, as well
as old beliefs and institutions, had lost their moorings and gone adrift
in the storm. As in the South Sea Bubble, almost everybody gambled; as
in the Railway mania--not many centuries ago--almost every one took his
unlucky share: a man of that time, of the vast talents and ambition of
Swift, could scarce do otherwise than grasp at his prize, and make his
spring at his opportunity. His bitterness, his scorn, his rage, his
subsequent misanthropy, are ascribed by some panegyrists to a deliberate
conviction of mankind's unworthiness, and a desire to amend them by
castigating. His youth was bitter, as that of a great genius bound down
by ignoble ties, and powerless in a mean dependence; his age was bitter,
like that of a great genius that had fought the battle and nearly won it,
and lost it, and thought of it afterwards writhing in a lonely exile. A
man may attribute to the gods, if he likes, what is caused by his own
fury, or disappointment, or self-will. What public man--what statesman
projecting a _coup_--what king determined on an invasion of his
neighbour--what satirist meditating an onslaught on society or an
individual, can't give a pretext for his move? There was a French
general the other day who proposed to march into this country and put it
to sack and pillage, in revenge for humanity outraged by our conduct at
Copenhagen: there is always some excuse for men of the aggressive turn.
They are of their nature warlike, predatory, eager for fight, plunder,
dominion.

As fierce a beak and talon as ever struck--as strong a wing as ever beat,
belonged to Swift. I am glad, for one, that fate wrested the prey out of
his claws, and cut his wings and chained him. One can gaze, and not
without awe and pity, at the lonely eagle chained behind the bars.

That Swift was born at No. 7, Hoey's Court, Dublin, on the 30th November,
1667, is a certain fact, of which nobody will deny the sister island the
honour and glory; but, it seems to me, he was no more an Irishman than a
man born of English parents at Calcutta is a Hindoo. Goldsmith was an
Irishman, and always an Irishman: Steele was an Irishman,