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severe for him, its buffets too abrupt, its burden too heavy, and he gave
up the fight before the battle had really begun. This lack of courage and
extreme sensitiveness are seen in the son. But so peculiar, complex and
wonderful is this web of life, that our very blunders, weaknesses and
mistakes are woven in and make the fabric stronger. If Swift had
possessed only his mother's merits, without his father's faults, he
would never have shaken the world with laughter, and we should never have
heard of him.

In her lowliness and simplicity the mother of Swift was content. She did
her work in her own little way. She smiled at folly, and each day she
thanked Heaven that her lot was no worse. Not so her son. He brooded in
sullen silence; he cursed Fate for making him a dependent, and even in
his youth he scorned those who benefited him. This was a very human
proceeding.

Many hate, but few have a fine capacity for scorn. Their hate is so
vehement that when hurled it falls short. Swift's scorn was a beautifully
winged arrow, with a poisoned tip. Some who were struck did not at the
time know it.

His misanthropy defeated his purpose, thwarted his ambition, ruined his
aims, and--made his name illustrious.

Swift wished for churchly preferment, but he had not the patience to
wait. He imagined that others were standing in his way, and of course
they were; for under the calm exterior of things ecclesiastic, there is
often a strife, a jealousy and a competition more rabid than in commerce.
To succeed in winning a bishopric requires a sagacity as keen as that
required to become a Senator of Massachusetts or the Governor of New
York. The man bides his time, makes himself popular, secures advocates,
lubricates the way, pulls the wires, and slides noiselessly into place.

Swift lacked diplomacy. When matters did not seem to progress he grew
wrathful, seized his pen and stabbed with it. But as he wrote, the
ludicrousness of the whole situation came over him and, instead of
cursing plain curses, he held his adversary up to ridicule! And this
ridicule is so active, the scorn so mixed with wit, the shafts so finely
feathered with truth, that it is the admiration of mankind. Vitriol mixed
with ink is volatile. Then what? We just run Swift through a coarse sieve
to take out the lumps of Seventeenth Century refuse, and then we give him
to children to make them laugh. Surely no better use can be made of
pessimists. Verily, the author o