solemn and devout
manner with his own hand. He came to church every morning, preached
commonly in his turn, and attended the evening anthem, that it might not
be negligently performed. He read the service, "rather with a strong,
nervous voice, than in a graceful manner; his voice was sharp and
high-toned, rather than harmonious." He entered upon the clerical state
with hope to excel in preaching; but complained that, from the time
of his political controversies, "he could only preach pamphlets." This
censure of himself, if judgment be made from those sermons which have
been printed, was unreasonably severe.

The suspicions of his irreligion proceeded in a great measure from his
dread of hypocrisy; instead of wishing to seem better, he delighted in
seeming worse than he was. He went in London to early prayers, lest he
should be seen at church; he read prayers to his servants every morning
with such dexterous secrecy, that Dr. Delany was six months in his house
before he knew it. He was not only careful to hide the good which he
did, but willingly incurred the suspicion of evil which he did not.
He forgot what himself had formerly asserted, that hypocrisy is less
mischievous than open impiety. Dr. Delany, with all his zeal for his
honour, has justly condemned this part of his character.

The person of Swift had not many recommendations. He had a kind of muddy
complexion, which, though he washed himself with Oriental scrupulosity,
did not look clear. He had a countenance sour and severe, which he
seldom softened by any appearance of gaiety. He stubbornly resisted any
tendency to laughter. To his domestics he was naturally rough: and a man
of a rigorous temper, with that vigilance of minute attention which his
works discover, must have been a master that few could bear. That he was
disposed to do his servants good, on important occasions, is no great
mitigation; benefaction can be but rare, and tyrannic peevishness is
perpetual. He did not spare the servants of others. Once, when he dined
alone with the Earl of Orrery, he said of one that waited in the room,
"That man has, since we sat to the table, committed fifteen faults."
What the faults were, Lord Orrery, from whom I heard the story, had not
been attentive enough to discover. My number may perhaps not be exact.

In his economy he practised a peculiar and offensive parsimony, without
disguise or apology. The practice of saving being once necessary, became
habitual, an