her a low bow, took out my knife and fork, and fell to eat, which gave them exceeding delight.  The mistress sent her maid for a small dram cup, which held about two gallons, and filled it with drink.  I took up the vessel with much difficulty in both hands, and in a most respectful manner drank to her ladyship’s health, expressing the words as loud as I could in English, which made the company laugh so heartily, that I was almost deafened with the noise. . . .

“In the midst of dinner, my mistress’s favourite cat leapt into her lap.  I heard a noise behind me like that of a dozen stocking-weavers at work; and turning my head, I found it proceeded from the purring of this animal, who seemed to be three times larger than an ox, as I computed by the view of her head, and one of her paws, while her mistress was feeding and stroking her.  The fierceness of this creature’s countenance altogether discomposed me; though I stood at the further end of the table, above fifty foot off; and although my mistress held her fast for fear she might give a spring, and seize me in her talons.  But it happened there was no danger; for the cat took not the least notice of me when my master placed me within three yards of her.  And as I have been always told, and found true by experience in my travels, that flying, or discovering fear before a fierce animal, is a certain way to make it pursue or attack you, so I resolved in this dangerous juncture to show no manner of concern.  I walked with intrepidity five or six times before the very head of the cat, and came within half a yard of her; whereupon she drew herself back, as if she were more afraid of me.”

When it was published Gulliver’s Travels was at once a great success.  Ten days after it appeared, two poets wrote to Swift that “the whole town, men, women, and children are quite full of it.”

For nearly twenty years longer Swift lived, then sad to say the life of the man who wrote for us these fascinating tales closed in gloom without relief.  Stella, his life-long friend, died.  That left him forlorn and desolate.  Then, as the years passed, darker and darker gloom settled upon his spirit.  Disease crept over both mind and body, he was tortured by pain, and when at length the pain left him he sank into torpor.  It was not madness that had come upon him, but a dumb stupor.  For more than two years he lived, but it was a living death.  Without memory, without hope, the great genius had become the voiceless ruin of a man.  But at length a merciful end came.  On an October day in 1745 Swift died.  He who had torn his own heard with restless bitterness, who had suffered and caused others to suffer, had at last found rest.

He was buried at dead of night in his own cathedral and laid by Stella’s side, and over his grave were carved words chosen by himself which told the wayfarer that Jonathan Swift had gone “Where savage indignation can no longer tear at his heart.  Go, wayfarer, and imitate, if thou canst, a man who did all a man may do as a valiant champion of liberty.”