ii. p. 160) confounds Moor Park in Surrey, where Temple resided, with the Moor Park in Hertfordshire, which is praised in the Essay on Gardening.] which they now preferred to Sheen, on account of the greater distance from London.  In that spot, then very secluded, Temple passed the remainder of his life.  The air agreed with him.  The soil was fruitful, and well suited to an experimental farmer and gardener.  The grounds were laid out with the angular regularity which Sir William had admired in the flower-beds of Haarlem and the Hague.  A beautiful rivulet, flowing from the hills of Surrey, bounded the domain.  But a straight canal which, bordered by a terrace, intersected the garden, was probably more admired by the lovers of the picturesque in that age.  The house was small but neat, and well-furnished; the neighbourhood very thinly peopled.  Temple had no visitors, except a few friends who were willing to travel twenty or thirty miles in order to see him, and now and then a foreigner whom curiosity brought to have a look at the author of the Triple Alliance.

Here, in May 1694, died Lady Temple.  From the time of her marriage we know little of her, except that her letters were always greatly admired, and that she had the honour to correspond constantly with Queen Mary.  Lady Giffard, who, as far as appears, had always been on the best terms with her sister-in-law, still continued to live with Sir William.

But there were other inmates of Moor Park to whom a far higher interest belongs.  An eccentric, uncouth, disagreeable young Irishman, who had narrowly escaped plucking at Dublin, attended Sir William as an amanuensis, for board and twenty pounds a year, dined at the second table, wrote bad verses in praise of his employer, and made love to a very pretty, dark-eyed young girl, who waited on Lady Giffard.  Little did Temple imagine that the coarse exterior of his dependant concealed a genius equally suited to politics and to letters, a genius destined to shake great kingdoms, to stir the laughter and the rage of millions, and to leave to posterity memorials which can perish only with the English language.  Little did he think that the flirtation in his servants’ hall, which he perhaps scarcely deigned to make the subject of a jest, was the beginning of a long unprosperous love, which was to be as widely famed as the passion of Petrarch or of Abelard.  Sir William’s secretary was Jonathan Swift.  Lady Giffard’s waiting-maid was poor Stella.

Swift retained no pleasing recollection of Moor Park.  And we may easily suppose a situation like his to have been intolerably painful to a mind haughty, irascible, and conscious of pre-eminent ability.  Long after, when he stood in the Court of Requests with a circle of gartered peers round him, or punned and rhymed with Cabinet Ministers over Secretary St. John’s Monte-Pulciano, he remembered, with deep and sore feeling, how miserable he used to be for days together when he suspected that Sir William had taken something