In some ways nothing could be a better introduction to the “Polite Conversation” than the account of it which Mr. Thackeray has given in his “English Humourists” (though under the head of Steele, not Swift), as illustrating the society of the period. That account is in its way not much less of a classic than the immortal original itself, and it is purely delightful. But it neither deals nor pretends to deal with the whole of the subject. Indeed, the idea of Swift’s character which the “Conversation” gives does not square altogether well with the view—true, but one-sided—which it suited Mr. Thackeray to take of Swift.

The “Conversation” appeared very late in Swift’s life, and he himself derived no pecuniary benefit from it. He had, with that almost careless generosity which distinguished him side by side with an odd kind of parsimony, given the manuscript to a not particularly reputable protÉgÉe of his, Mrs. Barber, about 1736, and its first edition—a copy of which, presented to me by my friend Mr. Austin Dobson no small number of years ago, is here reproduced—bears date 1738, and was published in London by Motte and Bathurst. The composition, however, dates, as is known to a practical certainty, many years earlier. It is beyond any reasonable doubt identical with the “Essay on Conversation” which Swift noted as written or planned in 1708-10. The nom de guerre on the title-page and to the introduction is Simon Wagstaff, one of the literary family of Staffs fathered by Swift and Steele in “Tatler” times. The manners are evidently those of Queen Anne’s day, and the whole chronology of the introduction (which, it will be seen, has all Swift’s mock carefulness and exactitude) is adjusted to the first decade of the eighteenth century. A hundred years later Scott (whose own evident relish for the “Conversation” struggled somewhat with a desire to apologise for its coarseness to the decencies even of his own day), hazarded the opinion that the abundance of proverbial expressions must be set down to the Dean’s own fancy, not to actual truth of reporting. It is always with great diffidence that I venture to differ with Sir Walter; but I think he was wrong here. One piece of indirect evidence—the extreme energy with which Chesterfield, at no very distant date from the publication, but after a lapse of fully a generation from the probable composition of the dialogues, inveighs against this very practice—would seem to be sufficient to establish its authenticity. For polite society, where its principles are not, as they generally are, pretty constant, is never so bitter as against those practices which were the mode and are now dÉmodÉs.

But if anyone thinks this argument paradoxical, there are plenty more. The conversation of the immortal eight corresponds exactly to that of the comedies of the time, and the times just earlier, which were written by the finest gentlemen. It meets us, of course less brilliantly put, in the “Wentworth Papers” and other documents of the time; and its very faults are exactly those which Steele and Addison, like their predecessors of the other sex in the Hotel Rambouillet sixty or seventy years earlier, were, just when these dialogues were written, setting themselves to correct. We know, of course, that Swift moved in a world of middle and even not always upper middle class society, as well as in the great world; and that, perhaps, at the date of the actual composition of this piece, he had not reached his fullest familiarity with the latter. But I have myself very little doubt that the dialogues express and were fully justified by the conversation he had actually heard among the less decorous visitors at Temple’s solemn board, in the livelier household of Lord Berkeley, in the circles of Ormond and Pembroke, and during his first initiation after 1707 in London society proper. How far he may have subsequently polished and altered the thing it is impossible to say; that he had done so to some extent is obvious from such simple matters as the use of the word “king” instead of “queen,” from the allusions to the “Craftsman,” and others. I doubt whether the picture became substantially false till far into the reign of George II., if it even became so then.

There are those, of whom, as Mr. Wagstaff would himself say, “I have the honour to be one,” who put the “Polite Conversation” in the very front rank of Swift’s works. It is of course on a far less ambitious scale than “Gulliver;” it has not the youthful audacity and towering aim of the “Tale of a Tub;” it lacks the practical and businesslike cogency of the “Drapier;” the absolute perfection and unrivalled irony of the “Modest Proposal” and the “Argument against abolishing Christianity.” But what it wants in relation to each of these masterpieces in some respects it makes up in others; and it is distinctly the superior of its own nearest analogue, the “Directions to Servants.” It is never unequal; it never flags; it never forces the note. Nobody, if he likes it at all, can think it too long; nobody, however much he may like it, can fail to see that Swift was wise not to make it longer. One of its charms is the complete variation between the introduction and the dialogues themselves. The former follows throughout, even to the rather unnecessary striking in with literary quarrels, the true vein of Swiftian irony, where almost every sentence expresses the exact contrary of the author’s real sentiments, and where the putative writer is made to exhibit himself as ridiculous while discoursing to his own complete satisfaction. It exhibits also, although in a minor key, the peculiar pessimism which excites the shudders of some and the admiration of others in the great satires on humanity enumerated above.

But the dialogues themselves are quite different. They are, with the exception of the lighter passages in the “Journal to Stella,” infinitely the most good-natured things in Swift. The characters are scarcely satirized; they are hardly caricatured. Not one of them is made disagreeable, not one of them offensively ridiculous. Even poor Sir John Linger, despite the scarce concealed scorn and pity of his companions and the solemn compassion of good Mr. Wagstaff, is let off very easily. The very “scandal-mongering” has nothing of the ferocity of the “Plain Dealer” long before, and the “School for Scandal” long after it; the excellent Ladies Smart and Answerall tear their neighbours’ characters to pieces with much relish but with no malignity. The former, for all her cut-and-dried phrases, is an excellently hospitable hostess, and “her own lord” is as different as possible from the brutal heroes of Restoration comedy, and from the yawning sour-blooded rakes of quality whom a later generation of painters in words and colours were to portray. There is, of course, not a little which would now be horribly coarse, but one knows that it was not in the least so then. And in it, as in the scandal-mongering, there is no bad blood. Tom and the Colonel and Lord Sparkish are fine gentlemen with very loose-hung tongues, and not very strait-laced consciences. But there is nothing about them of the inhumanity which to some tastes spoils the heroes of Congreve and of Vanbrugh.

As for “Miss,” no doubt she says some things which it would be unpleasant to hear one’s sister or one’s beloved say now. But I fell in love with her when I was about seventeen, I think; and from that day to this I have never wavered for one minute in my affection for her. If she is of coarser mould than Millamant, how infinitely does she excel her in flesh and blood—excellent things in woman! She is only here—“this ‘Miss’ of our heart, this ‘Miss’ of our soul,”—here and in a letter or two of the time. The dramatists and the essayists and the poets made her a baggage or a Lydia Languish, a Miss Hoyden or a minx, when they tried her. Hogarth was not enough of a gentleman and Kneller not enough of a genius to put her on canvas. When the regular novelists began, sensibility had set its clutch on heroines. But here she is as Swift saw her—Swift whom every woman whom he knew either loved or hated, and who must, therefore, have known something about women, for all his persistent maltreatment of them. And here, as I have said, the maltreatment ceases. If the handling is not very delicate, it is utterly true, and by no means degrading. There is even dignity in Miss. For all her romps, and her broad speeches, and her more than risky repartees, she knows perfectly well how to pull up her somewhat unpolished admirers when they go too far. And when at three o’clock in the morning, with most of the winnings in her pocket, she demurely refuses the Colonel’s escort (indeed it might have had its dangers), observing, “No, Colonel, thank you; my mamma has sent her chair and footmen,” and leaves the room with the curtsey we can imagine, the picture is so delightful that unholy dreams come upon one. How agreeable it would have been to hire the always available villains, overcome those footmen, put Miss in a coach and six, and secure the services of the also always available parson, regardless of the feelings of my mamma and of the swords of Tom and the Colonel, though not of Miss’s own goodwill! For I should not envy anyone who had tried to play otherwise than on the square with Miss Notable.

For Mr. Wagstaff’s hero I have, as no doubt is natural, by no means as much admiration as for his “heroin.” Mr. Thomas Neverout is a lively youth enough, but considerably farther from the idea—and that not merely the modern idea—of a gentleman, than Miss with all her astounding licence of speech is from the idea—and that not merely the modern idea—of a lady. It is observable that he seldom or never gets the better of her except by mere coarseness, and that he has too frequent recourse to the expedient which even Mr. Wagstaff had the sense to see was not a great evidence of wit, the use of some innuendo or other, at which she is obliged to blush or to pretend want of understanding. At fair weapons she almost always puts him down. In fact, the Colonel, though not precisely a genius, is the better fellow of the two. I do not know whether it was intentional or not, but it is to be observed that my Lord Sparkish, though quite as “smart” in the new-old sense of which this very work is the locus classicus, as the two commoners, is cleaner by a good deal in his language. It is unlike Mr. Wagstaff’s usual precision of information that he gives us no details about Lady Answerall. If there is any indication to show whether she was wife or widow, I have missed it in many readings; but I think she, though still young, was the eldest of the three ladies, and she certainly was handsome. Lady Smart I take to have been plain, from her disparaging reference to Miss: “The girl’s well enough if she had but another nose.” I resent this reference to a feature which I am sure was charming (it was probably retroussÉ; it was certainly not aquiline); and as Lady Smart was clearly not ill-natured, it follows that she must have been herself either a recognized beauty or not beautiful. We should have had some intimation of the former had it been the case, so I incline to the latter. She had children, and was evidently on the best of terms with her husband, which is very satisfactory.

If it were not for Miss and the dinner—two objects of perennial interest to all men of spirit and taste—I am not sure that I should not prefer the introduction to the conversations themselves. It is indispensable to the due understanding of the latter, and I cannot but think that Thackeray unjustifiably overlooked the excuse it contains for the somewhat miscellaneous and Gargantuan character of the feast which excited his astonishment and horror. But it would be delightful in itself if we were so unfortunate as to have lost the conversations, and, as I have already said, its delight is of a strangely different kind from theirs. Although there are more magnificent and more terrible, more poignant and more whimsical examples of the marvellous Swiftian irony, I do not know that there is any more justly proportioned, more exquisitely modulated, more illustrative of that wonderful keeping which is the very essence and quiddity of the Dean’s humour.

Some things have been lately said, as they are always said from time to time, about the contrast between the Old humour and the New. The contrast, I venture to think, is wrongly stated. It is not a contrast between the old and the new, but, in the first place, between the perennial and the temporary, and in the second between two kinds of humour which, to do them justice, are both perennial enough—the humour which is quiet, subtle, abstracted, independent of catchwords and cant phrases, and the humour which is broad, loud, gesticulative, and prone to rely upon cant phrases and catchwords. Swift has illustrated the two in the two parts of this astonishing book, and whoso looks into the matter a little narrowly will have no difficulty in finding this out. Far be it from me to depreciate the “newer” kind, but I may be permitted to think it the lower. It is certainly the easier. The perpetual stream of irony which Swift pours out here in so quiet yet so steady a flow, is the most difficult of all things to maintain in its perfection. Not more, perhaps, than half-a-dozen writers in all literature, of whom the three chiefs are Lucian, Pascal, and Swift himself, have been quite masters of it, and of these three Swift is the mightiest. Sink below the requisite proportion of bitterness and the thing becomes flat; exceed that proportion and it is nauseous. Perhaps, as one is always fain to persuade oneself in such cases, a distinct quality of palate is required to taste, as well as a distinct power of genius to brew it. It is certain that though there are some in all times who relish this kind of humour (and this is what gives it its supremacy, for examples of the other kind are, at other than their own times, frequently not relished by anybody), they are not often found in large numbers. The liquor is too dry for many tastes; it has too little froth, if not too little sparkle for others. The order of architecture is too unadorned, depends too much upon the bare attraction of symmetry and form, to charm some eyes. But those who have the taste never lose it, never change it, never are weary of gratifying it. Of irony, as of hardly any other thing under the sun, cometh no satiety to the born ironist.

It may be well to end this brief preface by a few words on the principles of editing which I have adopted. There is no omission whatever, except of a very few words—not, I think, half a score in all—which were barely permissible to mouths polite even then, and which now are almost banished from even free conversation. Nor have even these omissions been allowed to mutilate the passages in which they occur; for on Mr. Wagstaff’s own excellent principle, the harmless necessary “blank, which the sagacious reader may fill up in his own mind,” has replaced them.

In respect of annotation the methods of the collection in which this book appears did not permit of any very extensive commentary; and I could not be sorry for this. Anything like full scholia on the proverbs, catchwords, and so forth used, would be enormously voluminous, and a very dull overlaying of matter ill-sortable with dulness. Besides, much of the phraseology is intelligible to anybody intelligent, and not a very little is not yet obsolete in the mouths of persons of no particular originality. You may still hear men and women, not necessarily destitute either of birth, breeding, or sense, say of such a thing that “they like it, but it does not like them,” that such another thing “comes from a hot place,” with other innocent clichÉs of the kind. But in some places where assistance seemed really required I have endeavoured to give it. Among such cases I have not included the attempt to identify “the D. of R.,” “the E. of E.,” “Lord and Lady H.,” etc. I am afraid it would be falling too much into the humour of good Mr. Wagstaff himself to examine with the help of much Collins the various persons whose initials and titles might possibly correspond with these during the nearly sixty years between Mr. Wagstaff’s coming of age and the appearance of his work at the Middle Temple Gate in Fleet Street. The persons named at full length are generally, if not universally real, and more or less well known. Enough to inform or remind the reader of these has, I hope, been inserted in the Notes. But the fact is, that, like most great writers, though not all, Swift is really not in need of much annotation. It is not that he is not allusive—I hardly know any great writer who is not—but that his allusions explain themselves to a reader of average intelligence quite sufficiently for the understanding of the context, though not, it may be, sufficiently to enable him to “satisfy the examiners.” It does not, for instance, matter in the least whether the “infamous Court chaplain,” who taught the maids of honour not to believe in Hell was Hoadley, or who he was. His cap may even have fitted several persons at different times. In such a display of literary skill at arms as this the glitter of the blade and the swashing blow of its wielder are the points of interest, not the worthless carrion into which it was originally thrust. But “worthless carrion” is not Polite Conversation: so let me leave the reader to what is.[1]

George Saintsbury.

A Complete
COLLECTION
Of Genteel and Ingenious
CONVERSATION,
According to the Most
Polite Mode and Method
Now USED
At COURT, and in the BEST
COMPANIES of England.

In THREE DIALOGUES.

By SIMON WAGSTAFF, Esq.;

LONDON:
Printed for B. Motte, and C. Bathurst, at
the Middle Temple-Gate in Fleet-Street.
M.dcc.xxxviii.