How these contrasts must have grated on the mind of a man who looked down on all their lordships; who looked down on Steele; and who could count on his finger-ends the personages whom he scanned eye to eye--and who were upon a level with his commanding height. He did service, too--this master of the pen and master of causticity--that to most would have brought quick reward; but he was too strong and too proud and too independent to come by reward easily. Such a man is bowed to reverently; is invited to dine hither and yon; is flattered, is humored, is conciliated; but as for office--ah! that is another matter. He is unsafe; he will kick over the traces; he will take the bit in his mouth; he will be his own man and not our man. What court, what cabinet, what clique could trust to the moderation, to the docility, to the reticence of a person capable of writing _Gulliver’s Travels_, and of turning all court scandals, all political intrigues, all ecclesiastic decorum, into a penny-show? He is, indeed, urged for Bishop of Hereford--seems to have excellent chance there; but some brother Bishop (I think ’tis the Archbishop of York), who is much afraid, as he deserves to be, of _The Tale of a Tub_--says to the hesitating Queen,--“Better inquire first if this man be really a Christian;” and this frights the good Queen and the rest. So Swift is let off with the poor sop of the Deanery of St. Patrick’s. _His London Journal._ We know all about those days of his in London--days of expectancy. He has told us: “The ministry are good hearty fellows. I use them like dogs, because I expect they will use me so. They call me nothing but Jonathan. I said I believed they would leave me Jonathan, as they found me; and that I never knew a minister do anything for those whom they make companions of their pleasures; and I believe you will find it so, but _I_ care not.” And to whom does he talk so confidentially, and tell all the story of those days? Why, to Hester Johnson. It is all down in Stella’s journal--written for her eye only; and we have it by purest accident. It was begun in 1710--he then in his forty-third year, and she in her thirtieth. She has kept her home over in Ireland with Mrs. Dingley--seeing him on every visit there, and on every day, almost, of such visits; and, as her sweetest pasturage, feeding on letters he writes other times, and lastly on this Stella journal, “for her dear eyes,” at the rate of a page, or even two pages a day, for some three years. All his London day’s life comes into it. Let us listen: “Dined at the chop-house with Will Pate, the learned woollen draper, then we sauntered at china-shops and book-sellers; went to the tavern; drank 2 pints of white wine; never parted till ten. Have a care of those eyes--pray--pray, pretty Stella! “So you have a fire now, and are at cards at home; I think of dining in my lodgings to-day on a chop and a pot of ale.