There are passages, nevertheless, which can hardly be taken from her.  For now and then Swift parts his dear MD.  When he does so he invariably drops those initials and writes “Stella” or “Ppt” for the one, and “D” or “Dingley” for the other.  There is no exception to this anywhere.  He is anxious about Stella’s “little eyes,” and about her health generally; whereas Dingley is strong.  Poor Ppt, he thinks, will not catch the “new fever,” because she is not well; “but why should D escape it, pray?” And Mrs. Dingley is rebuked for her tale of a journey from Dublin to Wexford.  “I doubt, Madam Dingley, you are apt to lie in your travels, though not so bad as Stella; she tells thumpers.”  Stella is often reproved for her spelling, and Mrs. Dingley writes much the better hand.  But she is a puzzle-headed woman, like another.  “What do you mean by my fourth letter, Madam Dinglibus?  Does not Stella say you had my fifth, goody Blunder?” “Now, Mistress Dingley, are you not an impudent slut to except a letter next packet?  Unreasonable baggage!  No, little Dingley, I am always in bed by twelve, and I take great care of myself.”  “You are a pretending slut, indeed, with your ‘fourth’ and ‘fifth’ in the margin, and your ‘journal’ and everything.  O Lord, never saw the like, we shall never have done.”  “I never saw such a letter, so saucy, so journalish, so everything.”  Swift is insistently grateful for their inquiries for his health.  He pauses seriously to thank them in the midst of his prattle.  Both women—­MD—­are rallied on their politics:  “I have a fancy that Ppt is a Tory, I fancy she looks like one, and D a sort of trimmer.”

But it is for Dingley separately that Swift endured a wild bird in his lodgings.  His man Patrick had got one to take over to her in Ireland.  “He keeps it in a closet, where it makes a terrible litter; but I say nothing; I am as tame as a clout.”

Forgotten Dingley, happy in this, has not had to endure the ignominy, in a hundred essays, to be retrospectively offered to Swift as an unclaimed wife; so far so good.  But two hundred years is long for her to have gone stripped of so radiant a glory as is hers by right.  “Better, thanks to MD’s prayers,” wrote the immortal man who loved her, in a private fragment of a journal, never meant for Dingley’s eyes, nor for Ppt’s, nor for any human eyes; and the rogue Stella has for two centuries stolen all the credit of those prayers, and all the thanks of that pious benediction.

PRUE

Through the long history of human relations, which is the history of the life of our race, there sounds at intervals the clamour of a single voice which has not the tone of oratory, but asks, answers, interrupts itself, interrupts—­what else?  Whatever else it interrupts is silence; there are pauses, but no answers.  There is the jest without the laugh, and again the laugh without the jest.  And this is because the letters written by Madame de Sevigne were all saved, and not many written to her; because Swift burnt the letters that were the dearest things in life to him, while “MD” both made a treasury of his; and because Prue kept all the letters which Steele wrote to her from their marriage-day onwards, and Steele kept none of hers.