Swift’s friend, Dr. Sheridan, had charge of Mathew’s nephew for a time, and not unnaturally became one of the welcome guests at Thomastown. Through him Swift heard a great deal about the place, and, after a time, wanted to find out for himself how much truth there was in these reports of marvels, which seemed to him a monstrous tissue of exaggeration. Mathew, hearing of this through Sheridan, despatched a polite note to Swift, requesting the honour of a visit, in company with Sheridan, when the latter should have his next school vacation. Swift, though a little dubious, accepted the invitation, and some little time afterwards set out for Thomastown with Sheridan and a near relation of Mathew’s. The three of them rode all day through miry lanes and at length reached one of the wretched wayside hovels that passed then for inns in Ireland. Here they were to spend the night. Swift, who was very fastidious (did he not once complain of ‘dirty sheets’ and get in return a rebuke that is--or should be--historic?), began already to regret the adventure. But they had not been in the inn more than a few minutes when a magnificent coach-and-six thundered up to the door. It had been sent by Mathew to carry them the remainder of the journey to Thomastown, and contained a delectable supply of food, wine, and other liquors. Swift, we are told, ‘was highly pleased with this uncommon mark of attention paid him, and the coach proved particularly acceptable as he had been a good deal fatigued with his day’s journey.’ And an entertaining ride it must have been, too, with the Dean in good spirits, little Dr. Sheridan chuckling over the impromptu supper, and one and all rolling through the night on the road to Tipperary. When they came within sight of the house, Swift was astonished at its size, and cried: ‘What, in the name of heaven, can be the use of such a vast building?’ ‘Why, Mr. Dean,’ returned Mathew’s relative, ‘there are no less than forty apartments for guests in that house, and all of them probably occupied at this time, except what are reserved for us.’ Swift was down in the dumps in a moment. You could not expect the author of _Gulliver_ to relish his fellow-humans in a lump. Sticking his head out of the window, he called to the coachman and told him to drive back to Dublin, as he could not think of mixing with such a crowd. Then, luckily for himself, as it turned out, he saw that the affair had gone too far to be thus lightly abandoned. ‘Well,’ he declared gloomily, ‘there is no remedy; I must submit; but I have lost a fortnight of my life.’ He had not; but how many fortnights in that long unhappy life of his might not he have lost and yet only gained thereby, perhaps won some little touch of heart’s ease?