The piece as we have hitherto had it comes
as near poetry as anything Swift ever wrote except "Cadenus and
Vanessa," though neither of them aspires above the region of cleverness
and fancy. Indeed, it is misleading to talk of the poetry of one whose
fatal gift was an eye that disidealized. But we are not concerned here
with the discussion of Swift's claim to the title of poet. What we are
concerned about is to protest in the interests of good literature
against the practice, now too common, of hunting out and printing what
the author would doubtless have burned. It is unfair to the dead writer
and the living reader by disturbing that unitary impression which every
good piece of work aims at making, and is sure to make, only in
proportion to the author's self-denial and his skill in
The last and greatest art, the art to blot.
We do not wish, nor have we any right to know, those passages through
which the castigating pen has been drawn.
Mr. Forster may almost claim to have rediscovered Swift's journals to
Esther Johnson, to such good purpose has he used them in giving life and
light to his narrative. He is certainly wrong, however, in saying to the
disparagement of former editors that the name Stella was not invented
"till long after all the letters were written." This statement,
improbable in itself as respects a man who forthwith refined Betty,
Waring, and Vanhomrigh into Eliza, Varina, and Vanessa, is refuted by a
passage in the journal of 14th October, 1710, printed by Mr.
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