When Swift’s carriage with the six horses went through those gates, they faced pitch darkness. Each side of the avenue, which was nearly a mile long, had been planted with laurels that met in the middle, making night out of day. But when the gates swung closed behind the carriage, the visitors heard something very beautiful. All the laurels had been hung with small bells, and the air stirred by the carriage rang them. By the time any visitors emerged from the avenue at the top of the slope, the hosts of the castle had been alerted to expect them.
By the way, the carriage horses—my guess is that most of them were what we call three-quarter-breds and maybe even bigger than that, because it’s a known fact that Grand George kept twenty hunters for his guests.
Anyway, the coachman swung his six horses up along the Bell Walk, as that dark avenue was known, and emerged by that grassy mound over there, which was the castle’s ice pit. If you look at it now, you’ll find a very well made, deep stone beehive lined with brick, and it’s as cold as ice, even on a warm day like today. Our old storytelling friend told me he tried to stay in it once, thinking it an excellent place to shelter from the winds, but the cold drove him out of it.
The coach turned right at the ice pit and rattled along here, on the greensward before the castle doors. By the way, their builder called those three towers you see on the castle “French architectural spires,” and they were modeled on a great chateau in Normandy, not far from where my own family name comes from.
Swift got down from the carriage—they say it was a beautiful morning. He had been charmed by the engineering of the opening gateway and delighted by the ringing of the bells; he had then been most impressed with the position and presence of the castle. And who wouldn’t be? You can see that it must have been a fine building—look at the strength of some of those walls.
The Dean stood here where we’re standing and looked all around him. To the north we can see the Rock of Cashel and way beyond it the Devil’s Bit, where Saint Patrick chased Beelzebub out of Ireland—that’s another great story our friend tells. Over to the east we’re looking at Slievenamon, the Mountain of the Women, where, as everybody knows, Finn MacCool found a wife. To the south we find the gay Galtee Mountains. And west is the hill of Kilfeakle, where Saint Patrick lost a tooth and founded a church—as you already know, because I think our old friend said he told that story one night in your house.
So Jonathan Swift stood and looked at all this. And then he looked again at the castle.
“What in the name of God,” says he, “is the use of such a vast house?”
One of the men traveling with him said to the Dean that there’d surely be a lot of guests here, because Mr. Mathew had forty apartments built specially for guests to stay, and that they were all probably full, except for what had been reserved for the Dean and his party. Swift climbed back into the coach.
“I’m going back to Dublin,” says he. “I’m not going to mix with a crowd that big.”
But however cantankerous a man he was, he also had very good manners, and he thought for a minute and he said, “No, I can’t do that, I said I’d accept the man’s invitation, but it means I’ve lost a whole fortnight out of my life and I’ll just have to put up with it.”
So he sat there, in a sulk. After some minutes he got a bit annoyed again because no one had come out to greet him. And yet he had heard that the hospitality of this house was unmatched in the British Isles.
“Maybe,” says he, “I’m not so welcome after all.”
He ordered the coachman to turn around and drive away, but at that moment a local woman who worked at the castle was passing nearby and saw the Dean. She was the great-great-grandmother of an elderly Ryan lady who lives in that house down there in the village, the little yellow house. This servant woman ran to the castle and alerted a steward, who hurried off to get the boss.
Grand George Mathew was living up to his name that day. The reason no one had seen Swift arrive was because there was a big, lavish party going on. But when he heard that his distinguished visitor was here, Grand George dashed out from the banquet and caught the carriage just in time.
He calmed the great Dean with sweet words and told him he must agree to be the guest of honor at the feast. And why wouldn’t he? Swift was already one of the most famous men in the British Isles. He had written renowned books and made fierce attacks on the government and the rulers of the day. His personality dominated all his society, and people loved to tell stories about him.
For instance, he was at work one day at his writing table at the Deanery in Dublin when he heard a loud commotion in the yard. He looked out the window, saw a large crowd gathering, and called his servant.
“Who are all those people in the yard?”
“Dean, they’ve come to watch an eclipse of the sun.”
“Go out and tell them,” said Swift, “that it’s been postponed.”
He was a heavy sort of man, about five feet eight or nine or ten inches tall and known to be very cautious with his money. Except—whenever he left the Deanery to go anywhere, he had his pockets full of coins to give to the poor. And he had a taste for mocking pompous folk, which made him very popular with the people of Ireland.
There’s another story about him that you’ll hear in Dublin to this day. Swift called to see a friend of his one morning and was told by the servant that the man wasn’t at home. A few days later, the same man came to see Swift—who saw him coming, opened the window, and shouted out, “I’m not at home.” The visitor said, “What are you talking about? I can see you with my own two eyes.” And Swift said, “Listen, mister, I believed it when it was only your servant said you weren’t at home. So now when the master himself tells you he’s not at home, why won’t you believe him?”
He hated injustice, and even though he belonged to the Protestant ruling classes, he didn’t side with them when it came to governing the people of Ireland. His attacks on the king and the government made him many friends—and many enemies.
Anyway, here he was, walking up the greensward in front of Thomastown Castle on the arm of Grand George Mathew, who said, “Let me show you the place—there’s a good view of it from this gate.”
They climbed this little hill and stood up there, by the ramparts, where they could get the widest view.
“That’s the formal garden,” said Grand George. “And there’s the ornamental lake. And these here are the terraces.”
He pointed to those three grass terraces over there.
Now: the Dean was a man, who, no matter how he washed himself—and there’s no evidence that he washed himself much—could never look clean.
Nevertheless he said to Grand George, “Do you have bathtubs for your guests?”
“We do,” said Grand George, “big tubs, you could have a swim in one of them, they’re so capacious.”
“And,” said Dean Swift, “do you have people who can launder gentlemen’s clothes?”
“We have them too,” said Grand George, who was getting a little puzzled at this turn in the conversation. He had more puzzlement to come.
The Dean began to empty his pockets—his pens, his pocketknife, his notebook, all the contents—and he handed everything to Grand George, who stood there, his mouth open, not knowing what to do with all these personal possessions—a snuff box, a pipe, a book the Dean was reading, and a little tobacco pouch, a box of wig powder, a wallet, and so on.
“Stand aside,” said the Dean. And Grand George and the coachman and Swift’s servant, who always traveled with him, and a servant from the castle—they all stood aside.
The Dean lay down on the grass at the top of the first terrace and folded his arms to his chest. Then, like a child playing, he rolled himself over and began to roll down the first terrace, and then he rolled himself along the little plateau and down the second terrace, and then he rolled himself across the next little plateau and down the third terrace, and at the bottom of it he gave himself a few vigorous extra rolls until he was stopped by a
box hedge in the formal gardens.
He stood up and waved to everyone above, and then Grand George could see why Swift had asked so particularly about bathtubs and laundry—the Dean was muddy from the top of his white wig to the ankles of his white socks. But he was smiling like a child.
Grand George walked down the terraces to meet him, and the two gentlemen went into the castle.
“I fear,” said the Dean, “that by the time I’ve washed and put on clean linen, I may be late for your banquet.”
“Not at all,” said Grand George. “The banquet has scarcely started. And besides, I’ve other things to show you.”
“Well,” says Swift, “to tell you the truth, I’m not in much of a mood for a banquet right now, but I don’t want to be rude.”
“Listen, Dean,” says Grand George, “this feasting will continue for another three days—I mean to say, the musicians have scarcely warmed up. Go in and get yourself washed and rested, and we’ll talk again.”
“Are you sure?” said the Dean.
Grand George put his arm around Swift’s shoulder, and this is what he said to him.
“This is your castle for as long as you’re staying here. Eat your breakfast at any hour you want to, be it four or eight in the morning. Eat your dinner at any hour of the day you want to. And the same for your supper. And if you want to stay in your apartment and never meet the other guests—invite anyone you like to join you. When you come down, I’ll show you more.”
Swift went in, took a bath, put on clean clothes, and came down the grand staircase where his host was waiting for him—he had been tipped off by the servants that the Dean was out of the bath and getting ready.
“Now,” said Grand George, “come with me.”
First of all he showed Swift the parlor.
“If you want to eat here, you can. There are servants on hand to take your order any hour of the night or day.”
Then he let him peep into the banqueting hall, which was full of carousing people, but Swift didn’t want to go in there just then.
Next he took him to two unusual rooms. In the castle, Grand George had built a replica of a London coffeehouse—they were very popular at the time—and in it he had all the things you’d expect, books and newspapers and decks of cards and chessboards and all the accoutrements of a coffeehouse. Next door to that was a tavern, just like a pub in Dublin or London, with a barman in a blue apron, and that was where a lot of guests went after dinner, even though Grand George himself wasn’t a drinking man at all. And he showed Swift the billiard tables and the foxhounds and the stables and rods for fishing in the river Suir.
“Is that how you pronounce it?” said Swift. “Like ‘for sure’? I always thought it was pronounced like ‘sewer.’”
And they had a good laugh at that.
For the next three days Swift mixed with no one but his traveling companions and his host, Grand George, who took him out riding across the estate, where he showed off all the building and fencing and gardening that he was planning. Finally on the fourth night, the Dean took his place at the head of the table on the right hand of his host in the banqueting hall, and it became the most famous stay ever in the castle.
Remember how he complained that he’d have to lose a fortnight out his life? Well—Swift stayed for months. Two reasons caused this; first of all, he was so magnetic, he was such a great man, that Grand George let him stay longer than any guest had ever done. And secondly, the Dean felt he was being entertained so lavishly and cared for so comfortably that he didn’t want to leave. The year, they say, was seventeen-twenty-three; that’d make him fifty-six. Others say he didn’t come here until seventeen-thirty-five, but what does it matter, so long as he came here?
He also made good use of his visit. Think now on the times that were in it. The Battle of the Boyne was over, the Penal Laws had been coming into force at a rate of one every two years or so, each law more oppressive than the one before, and the great majority of the people in Ireland were badly downtrodden. And here, in the heart of lush Tipperary, Jonathan Swift took part in as luxurious a life as could be had in the world at that time.
In his private apartment in the castle, he had as many servants as he cared to call for; they would have washed his face for him, if he asked. Grand George granted him privacy or gaiety, as he preferred; Swift chose both. But he was also very interested in the contrast between this life here in the castle and the lives of the people who lived all around.
When the Irish were evicted from their lands, they took three pathways. The first road led to the outer world, by emigration, mostly to America in those days, because no Irishman could ever imagine a welcome could be found for him and his large family in England. That, thank God, changed a long time ago.
The second pathway proved long and winding, a path our old friend the Storyteller knows well. Some families simply took to the road and became itinerants. People called them gypsies, a term that was born of the word Egypt, because these travelers had haphazard clothing and colorful wagons—they looked as exotic as something that might have come from a country with a name so exciting as Egypt. And people also called them tinkers—because they sold pots and pans and other implements that they made out of tin. Nowadays we call them travelers or traveling people, and the hardness of their lives has never diminished since the day their ancestors, MacCarthys or O’Connors or Sheridans, had to leave their houses and take to what they call the “long acre,” the grass margin on the side of the road.
However, many of the dispossessed couldn’t bear to leave the countryside where they’d grown up and where they knew every branch of every tree, every blade of grass. So they stayed, very often on common land at the side of the road, and they built houses for themselves—if you can call them houses; as the Eskimos build igloos with blocks of ice, the dispossessed Irish built cabins with clods of turf.
Using their hands and working with stones sharp as knives, they lifted mats of turf from the ground and piled them on top of each other until they had built four walls. These walls usually formed a square or a rectangle around the bare earth from which they had lifted the turf, and therefore the cabins had earthen floors. Then they laid branches of trees across these turf walls, like a tight lattice, and across these branches they laid more lengths of turf as a roof. Eventually the little house seemed almost to merge into the landscape.
Swift saw the contrast between those people and the people at the banquet in the castle. So when he stayed here, he walked out across the countryside, looking at how the poor people lived, what they ate, how they grew potatoes on small patches of ground and cherished a hen as though it were a prize animal, because eggs also can feed a household. He found dignity among them—no bitterness that he could discern, but no future for them that he could imagine.
And he offered an interesting opinion. Everybody, said he, is afraid of being attacked by the Irish. But these people haven’t the strength to revolt; they’re too poor and too hungry. And there is one thing of which you may be sure: he never departed such a house without leaving behind some of his famous coins. During his time here he distributed many of them, and people grew very fond of the Dean.
Now, here’s the tail of this tale. Looking due north from where we stand, this castle estate was planted with wonderful trees. It had been arranged in groves, very artistic landscape gardening, and—see!—there are still stands and regiments of lime trees from the original planting. And if you look down there by the roadside, there was an exceptionally fine beech tree, tall and broad with spreading branches; I remember it well, it was in front of that house, which is the teacher’s.
On many an afternoon Dean Swift walked down the slopes of these fields to the banks of the ornamental lake. Beyond it, he came to the shade of the big beech tree and sat there for hours, reading and writing. Sometimes people walked by, and he either greeted them civilly or never even saw that they were there; he was that kind of man.
Many words of debate have been squandered si
nce seventeen-forty-five, the year Swift died, as to whether he went mad. He did leave money in his will to found a lunatic asylum in Dublin—as he indicated in the bequest, he believed no country needed it as much as Ireland did. But that doesn’t necessarily prove he was insane; indeed a lot of people would argue it proved the direct opposite!
What is true is that the beech tree was called Swift’s Tree, and not just because he sat under it on that famous visit. It fell to the ground in a great storm some time in the late nineteen-forties; everyone was surprised with the ease at which it fell—and boy! Didn’t it make a great crash as it came down.
When they went to examine it and cut it up for firewood, the local people found that it had been rotting from the top—just like the strange Dean who had come among them.
Eddie Landers sighed. He began to walk down the slope toward the castle entrance tower. Ronan followed him.
“See that big house down there? People called Fitzgeralds own it now. That used to be the dower house of the castle—the Mathew family owned it too, and every spring the daffodils still come up, tracing the initials of the family.” He turned to Ronan. “I could stay here all day, but I have to go. What about you?”
“I don’t know what to do.”
Eddie Landers wrinkled his freckled face in thought.
“Well, you nearly had him here.” Silence. “What would I do if I was you?” Silence. “I wouldn’t know what to do. But this is a small country, everyone knows everyone else. So all I can do is hand you on to someone else who might help. If he’s at their house, you’re in luck—if not, ask them to send you to the next likely place.”
Ireland Page 45