A Dialogue Between Dean Swift and Tho. Prior, Esq.. Unknown

      A Dialogue Between Dean Swift and Tho. Prior, Esq. / In the Isles of St. Patrick's Church, Dublin, On that / Memorable Day, October 9th, 1753

      Prior. Mr. Dean, I am sorry to see you up, if any of your private Affairs disturb you. I came to call at your Grave, and have a little Discourse with you; but unless 'tis the Publick has rouz'd you, I am troubled to find you walking as well as my self.

      Swift. 'Tis my Country keeps me walking! why who can lie still? I don't believe there are many Ghosts now, that have any share of Understanding, or any regard for Ireland, that are to be found in their Graves at Midnight. For my part I can no more keep in my Den than if it were the Day of Judgment. I have been earth'd now eight Years last October, and I think on my Conscience (and you know Tom the Conscience of one dead Man is worth ten of those that are living) I have had very few good Days Sleep since I got there. Ah Tom! poor Ireland! poor Ireland! it plagued my Heart while I was trifling away Life there; but my Curse on it, I never thought it would have broke my Rest thus when I was dead. I have tumbled and toss'd from one Side to the other (and by the by, they make these cursed Coffins so narrow 'tis a Plague to be in them) first one Thing would come into my Head, and then another, and often wrought me so, that I have many a time been forced to walk a whole Moon to rest me and get the better Nap when I lay down. Prithee how have you done?

      Prior. Why, very little better; only as I have not been so long shut up in my Dormitory as you, the Confinement is less irksome. But I was not affected the same way with you, for I sometimes slept for Months together like a Dormouse; but when Ireland once gets into my Head and its present melancholy Circumstances, it works my Thoughts upwards and downwards from the Great Ones to their Slaves, like a poor Patient with Ward's Drop and Pill.

      Swift. That has often been my Case Tom. When I get into that Train of thinking, and consider the present Situation of our Country, it makes me as uneasy in my Coffin as a Rat shut up in a Trap. I remember an old She1 Fool, that was fonder of scribling than reigning, used to say, that the Dead have that melancholy Advantage over the Living of first forgetting them; but 'tis as false as ten thousand other Truths, that your Philosophers and Politicians above Ground keep such a babling with over our Heads. For my part I never had that Pleasure, for since my first Nap under my Gravestone, which did not last three Weeks, I have been as much perplex'd about Ireland, as if I was still living at the Deanry, writing for Posterity, and thinking for my poor Country. What makes you sigh so Tom? Why you draw your Breath as hard as a broken-winded Racer; some Qualm I suppose about this neglected Island.

      Prior. That was the Case indeed. But tho' I am chiefly grieved at the ill Circumstances of I–d, my next trouble is, that the World seems resolved they shall never mend; and, I think so, by their treating all true Patriots in the most unhandsome Manner. This is as mad a Measure, as imprisoning the Physicians in an epidemical Sickness would be. Yet such Men, who only could heal our Distempers, are treated almost as common Poisoners, and watch'd as if they were Incendiaries and the Enemies of Society. It was too much our own Case when we were among Men, and tho' I scorn to lament the indifferent Treatment Dean Swift and Tom Prior received from those who should have respected and honoured them; yet I cannot help being concerned for the hard Usage all true Patriots generally meet with in I–d. Their Writings, tho' ever so disinterested are treated as so many mercenary Productions of the Press; their Zeal and their Motives are ever suspected, as false and personated, and most Governments look on such Authors at best, as so many out-lying Deer, and give all the World leave to hunt them and run them down. I am sure, as to my Particular, I may justly say, I found it so; for, as I well knew, that writing with a Design to please or serve others, ends, generally, either in Neglect or Censure; so, I would not have engaged in such a dangerous Undertaking, if I could have quieted my Heart, that was ever tempting me to despise the Danger for the Hopes of doing good by my Pen.

      Swift. I wish Tom the Tribe of Authors had ever writ from such a Turn of Mind, and then I fancy the World had not been so much over-run with Books.

      Prior. I can answer for my self that I had only the Service of my Fellow Citizens in view. Let those whose miserable Aim is writing well, be ashamed if they are criticiz'd, or ridiculed, but he who sincerely strives to serve Millions, must have a Scorn for Malice or Satyr, if he thinks he can feed or cloath half a Nation by scribling. I profess I writ whatever I publish'd, barely for the Joy I had in doing some Service to my Country, and with so little a view to Reputation, that I would have done it, if there had been no such thing as Fame in the World; and surely, there is almost as little of that phantastick Pleasure to be had here as in the Isle of Man, or the Orcades. Nay, Dean, I'll go further, I would have done it for the gratifying the pleasing Instinct that lead me to it, if there had not been a great Lord and Parent of Good to approve and reward it. Hence it was that I troubled the World with a deal of Tracts on publick Subjects; and, I thank Heaven, my Heart is as little asham'd of it, now I am dead, as I was proud of it when I was living, which is what few Authors can say when they are coffin'd. I saw writing absolutely necessary to the well-being of the most neglected Nation under Heaven. I heard, I saw, I felt the Displeasure of some great Men for several Things I wrote, which crost their Views, or even disagreed with their Opinions or Desires. I saw few either willing to appear Medlers or Busy-Bodies this Way; or visibly to hurt their worldly Interests, or to seem fond of either Ridicule or Reputation by bustling about it; and, as I was quite indifferent to those Fears, I hop'd what I did, and the Motives I went on, might be pardonable if not approveable; and whatever was the Event, I as sincerely despised any Abuse I met with, as I did any Credit, that a few solitary thinking Men might allow me for it.

      Swift. Why, really Tom, as there is no lying in this World, that we are now launch'd into, I must own there is a great deal of Truth in all you have said; and tho' I often writ for the Sake of Applause, yet writing with such a View is a poor Motive, and the best and noblest, and I had almost said, the only justifiable one, is to do Good in an evil World. I don't see any Thing very desireable in the greatest Talents, or in the largest Affluence of Fortune, unless they are in some Measure employed in the Publick Service, and if they be, it truly dignifies them; nay, that single View is enough to sanctify the poorest Scribling, and to make the meanest scraping and saving of Avarice, pass for the Marks of a worthy Spirit. But tho' Patriots are generally so ill used, by the ungrateful World; you certainly came much better off than I did, for where you met with one Reviler, I met with one hundred. The Pamphlets wrote against me, wou'd have form'd a Library, or rather a Dormitory, where they might have slept in undisturb'd Repose; instead of furnishing Grocers and Pastry Cooks for Years together, to make some expiation for beggaring Printers and Booksellers. I have had Thousands written against me, with Virulence and Scandal.

      Prior. And what a wounding Grief must that be, to your generous Mind, to have so much Malice returned, where so much Gratitude was due; surely it gave you infinite Pain to be so lash'd and stigmatised, by a Rabble, of the most invenom'd and imbitter'd Scriblers upon Earth?

      Swift. Why, dear Tom, I cou'd laugh a Month at you for this. Why, they made no more Impression on my Spirit, with their scurrilous Pamphlets, than they wou'd have done, on my Statue, had they thrown them at it. I ever consider'd, that Abuse from such Scriblers, who write for a Livelihood, can no more be thought an Affront, than a Barber's taking you by the Nose; 'tis his Trade, and the Wretch would starve if you stopt him. What harm did all their Ribaldry do me? I neither eat, nor drunk, nor slept the worse for it. I don't suppose, that the scape Goat, which the Jews loaded with Curses, and drove into the Wilderness, either died by their Maledictions, or grew a whit the leaner for them; nor was I ever the worse for all I met with. Why Tom, one had as good be a sensitive Plant, as to start and fly back, at every Touch, or every Appearance of being Touch'd, as some weak Men do.

      Prior. We may Reason thus, but Nature generally over masters our Opinions.

      Swift. Yes, when they are of opposite Sides, but in this point they must agree. Consider, what a wretched Thing would Merit be, whose chief support is a justly deserved good Character, if it depended for its real Fame, on the Writings (if we must call them Writings) of envious Scriblers, or the Tongues, of Slanderers, who wou'd both of them fain get a Scrap of Reputation, by vilifying exalted Names. No, Tom, there is something in true Merit, so independent of

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Queen Christina of Sweden.