Many anecdotes are told of Swift's peculiarities. He must have filled a large place in the life of Dublin during the thirty years that he was the dean of the cathedral. He was prominent in political, social, and ecclesiastical affairs during all that period and always welcome as a guest at the houses of the aristocracy in this neighborhood. In the suburb of Glasnevin was an estate called Hildeville, belonging to a generous but pretentious patron of the arts and sciences, named Dr. Delany, where the brilliant minds of that day used to gather for a good time. Swift is closely associated with the place and was one of Dr. Delany's most frequent and regular visitors. He called it "Hell-Devil," and chose for its motto "Fastigia Despicet Urbis," in which the verb is used in a double sense. Many of his most stinging satires were written there, including his ferocious libel on the Irish parliament. A reward was offered for the discovery of the author, and although a hundred members of the commons knew that it was from Swift's pen, no attempt was ever made to punish him and he was never even denounced publicly. And he wasn't above ridiculing his host, for here is an extract from an ode addressed to Dr. Delany of "Hell-Devil," when he was the latter's guest: "A razor, though to say 't I'm loath, Might shave you and your meadow both, A little rivulet seems to steal Along a thing you call a vale, Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek, Like rain along a blade of leek-- And this you call your sweet meander, Which might be sucked up by a gander, Could he but force his rustling bill To scoop the channel of the rill. In short, in all your boasted seat, There's nothing but yourself is--great." "Is it singin' yees want?" said the verger of Christ Church Cathedral, Dublin, when we entered that ancient sanctuary shortly before the hour for worship on a gloomy, drizzly Sabbath morning. "Then yees have come to the roight place. The choir of Christ Church is the finest in all Ireland, and mebbe in the whole wurrld, I dunno. Thay's twinty-four b'ys and min, and every mother's son iv thim is from the first families of Dooblin. The lads has been singin' frum their cradles, and they make the swatest music that ears ever heard; blessed be the Lord! Not as if they had no mischief in thim, for b'ys will be b'ys, singin' or no singin'; and thim that has the medals hangin' on their chists is the best behaved and the least mischaveous." We remained after the service to look about, and when the verger asked what I thought of the sermon I told him. "It's not of much consequence!" observed the cynic. And when I told him that the singing wasn't much better than the preaching, and that the boys sang out of tune, he replied apologetically: