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He told the Ipswich man 'in a 'speaking-trumpet, that he would not take him aboard, and that he stayed to see him sink. The Englishman at the same time observed a disorder in the vessel, which he rightly judged to proceed from the disdain which the ship's crew had of their captain's inhumanity. With this hope he went into his boat, and approached the enemy. He was taken in by the sailors in spite of their commander; but though they received him against his command, they treated him when he was in the ship in the manner he directed. Pottiere caused his men to hold Goodwin, while he beat him with a stick, till he fainted with loss of blood, and rage of heart; after which he ordered him into irons, without allowing him any food, but such as one or two of the men stole to him under peril of the like usage. After having kept him several days overwhelmed with the misery of stench, hunger, and soreness, he brought him into Calais. The governor of the place was soon acquainted with all that had passed, dismissed Pottiere from his charge with ignominy, and gave Goodwin all the relief which a man of honour would bestow upon an enemy barbarously treated, to recover the imputation of cruelty upon his prince and country.

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men in fight; but fame, glory, conquests, desires of opportunities to pardon and oblige their opposers, are what glow in the minds of the gallant,' The captain ended his discourse with a specimen of his book-learning; and gave us to understand, that he had read a French author on the subject of justness in point of gallantry. I love,' said Mr. Sentry, a critic who mixes the rules of life with annotations upon writers. My author,' added he, in his discourse upon epic poem, takes occasion to speak of the same quality of courage drawn in the two different characters of Turnus and Eneas. He makes courage the chief and greatest ornament of Turnus; but in Æneas there are many others which outshine it; among the rest, that of piety. Turnus is therefore all along painted by the poet full of ostentation, his language haughty and vainglorious, as placing his honour in the manifestation of his valour: Eneas speaks little, is slow to action, and shows only a sort of defensive courage. If equipage and address make Turnus appear more courageous than Eneas, conduct and success prove Eneas more valiant than Turnus,

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N951. SATURDAY, APRIL 12, 1712,

In te omnis domus inclinata recumbit.

YIRG. Æn. xii. ver. 59.

the writing of history was not then in use among the Greeks, we may very well suppose that the tra dition of Achilles and Ulysses had brought down but very few particulars to his knowledge; though there is no question but he has wrought into his two poems such of their remarkable adventures as were still talked of among his contemporaries.

When Mr. Sentry had read his letter, full of many other circumstances which aggravate the barbarity, he fell into a sort of criticism upon mag. nanimity and courage, and argued that they were inseparable; and that courage, without regard to justice and humanity, was no other than the fierceOn thee the fortunes of our house depend. ness of a wild beast. A good and truly bold spirit,' continued he, is ever actuated by reason, IF we look into the three great heroic poems which and a sense of honour and duty. The affectation have appeared in the world, we may observe that of such a spirit exerts itself in an impudent aspect, they are built upon very slight foundations. Homer an overbearing confidence, and a certain negli-lived near 300 years after the Trojan war; and, as gence of giving offence. This is visible in all the cocking youths you see about this town, who are noisy in assemblies, unawed by the presence of wise and virtuous men; in a word, insensible of all the honours and decencies of human life. A shameless fellow takes advantage of merit clothed with modesty and magnanimity, and, in the eyes of little people, appears sprightly and agreeable; while the man of resolution and true gallantry is overlooked and disregarded, if not despised. There is a propriety in all things; and I believe what you scholars call just and sublime, in opposition to turgid and bombast expression, may give you an idea of what I mean, when I say modesty is the certain indication of a great spirit, and impudence the affectation of it. He that writes with judgment, and never rises into improper warmths, manifests the true force of genius; in like manner, he who is quiet and equal in his behaviour, is supported in that deportment, by what we may call true courage. Alas! it is not so easy a thing to be a brave man as the unthinking part of mankind imagine. To dare, is not all that there is in it. The privateer we were just now talking of, had boldness enough to attack his enemy, but not greatness of mind enough to admire the same quality exerted by that enemy in defending himself. Thus his base and little mind was wholly taken up in the sordid regard to the prize of which he failed, and the damage done to his own vessel; and therefore he used an honest man, who defended his own from him, in the manner as he would a thief that should rob him.

He was equally disappointed, and had not spirit enough to consider, that one case would be laudable and the other criminal. Malice, rancour, batred, vengeance, are what tear the breasts of mean

The story of Eneas, on which Virgil founded his poem, was likewise very bare of circumstances, and by that means afforded him an opportunity of embellishing it with fiction, and giving a full range to his own invention. We find, however, that he has interwoven, in the course of his fable, the principal particulars, which were generally believed among the Romans, of Eneas's voyage and settlement in Italy.

The reader may find an abridgment of the whole story, as collected out of the ancient historians, and as it was received among the Romans, in Dionysius Halicarnassus.

Since none of the critics have considered Virgil's fable with relation to this history of Æneas, it may not perhaps be amiss to examine it in this fight, so far as regards my present purpose. Whoever looks into the abridgment above-mentioned, will find that the character of Eneas is filled with piety to the gods, and a superstitious observation of prodigies, oracles, and predictions. Virgil has not only preserved this character in the person of Eneas, but has given a place in his poem to those particular prophecies which he found recorded of him in history and tradition. The poet took the matters of fact as they came down to him, and circumstanced them after his own manner, to make them appear the more natural, agreeable, or surprising. I believe very many readers have been shocked at that ludicrous prophecy which one

of the harpies pronounces to the Trojans in the | third book, namely, that before they had built their intended city, they should be reduced by hunger to eat their very tables. But, when they hear that this was one of the circumstances that had been transmitted to the Romans in the history | of Eneas, they will think the poet did very well in taking notice of it. The historian above-mentioned acquaints us, that a prophetess had foretold Aneas that he should take his voyage westward, till his companions should eat their tables; and that, accordingly, upon his landing in Italy, as they were eating their flesh upon cakes of bread for want of other conveniences, they afterwards fed on the cakes themselves; upon which one of the company said merrily, We are eating our tables. They immediately took the hint, says the historian, and concluded the prophecy to be fulfilled. As Virgil did not think it proper to omit so material a particular in the history of Aneas, it may be worth while to consider with how much judgment he has qualified it, and taken off every thing that might have appeared improper for a passage in an heroic poem. The prophetess who foretels it, is an hungry harpy, as the person who discovers it is young Ascanius,

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fable to be the principal beauty of the ninth book,
which has more story in it, and is fuller of isc
dents, than any other in the whole poem. Satani
traversing the globe, and still keeping within the
shadow of the night, as fearing to be discovered by
the angel of the sun, who had before detected him,
is one of those beautiful imaginations with which
he introduces this his second series of adventures,
Having examined the nature of every creature,
and found out one which was the most proper ta
his purpose, he again returns to Paradise; and, t
avoid discovery, sinks by night with a river that
ran under the garden, and rises up again througa a
fountain that issued from it by the tree of life. The
poet, who, as we have before taken notice, speaks
as little as possible in his own person, and, after
the example of Homer, fills every part of his work
with manners and characters, introduces a soliloquy
of this infernal agent, who was thus restless in the
destruction of man. He is then described as gliding
through the garden, under the resemblance of .
mist, in order to find out that creature in which br
designed to tempt our first parents. This de-cr ‚-
tion has something in it very poetical and
prising:

So saving, through each thicket dank or dry,
Like a black mist low creeping, he held on
His midnight search, where soonest he might find
The serpent: him fast sleeping soon he found
In labyrinth of many a round self-roll'd,

His head the midst, well stor'd with subtle wiles.'

from all parts, and sending up a pleasant savour to the nostrils of its Creator; to which be adds a noble idea of Adam and Eve, as offering that morning worship, and filling up the universal cutcert of praise and adoration:

The author afterwards gives us a description of Such an observation, which is beautiful in the the morning, which is wonderfully suitable to a mouth of a boy, would have been ridiculous from divine poem, and peculiar to that first season of any other of the company. I am apt to think that nature, He represents the earth, before it was the changing of the Trojan fleet into water-cursed, as a great altar breathing out its inces nymphs, which is the most violent machine in the whole Eneid, and has given offence to several critics, may be accounted for the same way. Virgil himself, before he begins that relation, premises, that what he was going to tell "ppeared incredible, but that it was justified by tradition. What further confirms me that this change of the fleet was a celebrated circumstance in the history of Eneas, is, that Ovid has given a place to the same metamorphosis in his account of the heathen mythology.

Now when a sacred light began to dawn
In Eden on the humid flowers, that breath'd
Their morning incense, when all things that breathe
From th' carth's great altar send up silent praise
To the Creator, and his nostrils fill

With grateful smell; forth came the human fair,
And join'd their vocal worship to the choir
Of creatures wanting voice

None of the critics I have met with have considered the fable of the Eneid in this light, and taken notice how the tradition on which it was The dispute which follows between our two firt founded, authorizes those parts in it which appear parents, is represented with great art. It pro most exceptionable. I hope the length of this re- ceeds from a difference of judgment, not of pas flection will not make it unacceptable to the curi-sion, and is managed with reason, not with beat ous part of my readers.

The history which was the basis of Milton's poem, is still shorter than either that of the Iliad, or Æneid. The poet has likewise taken care to insert every circumstance of it in the body of his fable. The ninth book, which we are here to consider, is raised upon that brief account in scripture, wherein we are told, that the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field; that he tempted the woman to eat of the forbidden fruit; that she was overcome by this temptation, and that Adam followed her example. From these few particulars Milton has formed one of the most entertaining fables that invention ever produced. He has disposed of these several circumstances among so many beautiful and natural fictions of his own, that his whole story looks only like a comment upon sacred writ, or rather seems to be a full and complete relation of what the other is only an epitome. I have insisted the longer on this consideration, as I look upon the disposition and contrivance of the

It is such a dispute as we may suppose might have
happened in Paradise, had man continued happy
and innocent. There is a great delicacy in t
moralities which are interspersed in Adam's di
course, and which the most ordinary reader cat-
not but take notice of. That force of love which
the father of mankind so finely describes in the
eighth book, and which is inserted in my last S
turday's paper, shows itself here in many fine
stances: as in those fond regards he casts towards
Eve at her parting from him:

'Her long with ardent look his eye pursa'd
Delighted, but desiring more her stay.
Oft be to her his charge of quick return
Repeated; she to him as oft engag'd
To be return'd by noon amid the bow't.'
In his impatience and amusement during her ab

sence:

Adam the while.
Waiting desirous her return, had wove
Of choicest flow'rs a garland to adorn

Her tresses, and her rural labours crown,

As reapers oft are wont their harvest queen. Great joy he promis'd to his thoughts, and new Solace in her return, so long delay'd.'

But particularly in that passionate speech, where, seeing her irrecoverably lost, he resolves to perish with her, rather than to live without her:

Some cursed fraud

Or enemy hath beguil'd thee, yet unknown,
And me with thee hath ruin'd; for with thee
Certain my resolution is to die:

How can I live without thee? how forego
Thy sweet converse and love so dearly join'd,
To live again in these wild woods forlorn?
Should God create another Eve, and I
Another rib afford, yet loss of thee
Would never from my heart! no, no! I feel
The link of nature draw me: flesh of flesh,
Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state
Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe!'

The beginning of this speech, and the preparation to it, are animated with the same spirit as the conclusion, which I have here quoted.

The several wiles which are put in practice by the tempter, when he found Eve separated from her husband, the many pleasing images of nature which are intermixed in this part of the story, with its gradual and regular progress to the fatal catastrophe, are so very remarkable, that it would be superfluous to point out their respective beau

ties.

I have avoided mentioning any particular similitudes in my remarks on this great work, because I have given a general account of them in my paper on the first book. There is one, however, in this part of the poem which I shall here quote, as it is not only very beautiful, but the closest of any in the whole poem; I mean that where the serpent is described as rolling forward in all his pride, animated by the evil spirit, and conducting Eve to her destruction, while Adam was at too great a distance from her to give her his assistance. These several particulars are all of them wrought into the following similitude:

——— Hope elevates, and joy
Brightens his crest; as when a wandering fire,
Compact of unctuous vapour, which the night
Condenses, and the cold environs round,
Kindled through agitation to a flame,
(Which oft, they say, some evil spirit attends)
Hovering and blazing with delusive light,
Misleads th' amaz'd night-wanderer from his way
To bogs and mires, and oft through pond or pool,
There swallow'd up and lost, from succour far.'

That secret intoxication of pleasure, with all those transient flushings of guilt and joy, which the poet represents in our first parents upon their eating the forbidden fruit, to those flaggings of spirit, damps of sorrow, and mutual accusations which succeed it, are conceived with a wonderful imagination, and described in very natural senti

ments.

When Dido, in the fourth Eneid, yielded to that fatal temptation which ruined her, Virgil tells us the earth trembled, the heavens were filled with flashes of lightning, and the nymphs howled upon the mountain tops. Milton, in the same poetical spirit, has described all nature as disturbed upon Eve's eating the forbidden fruit:

So saying, her rash hand in evil hour

Forth reaching to the fruit, she pluck'd, she eat:
Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her seat
Sighing, through all her works gave signs of woe
That all was lost

Upon Adam's falling into the same guilt, the whole creation appears a second time in con

vulsions:

He scrupled not to eat Against his better knowledge; not deceiv'd, But fondly overcome with female charm. Earth trembled from her entrails, as again In pangs, and Nature gave a second groan; Sky lour'd, and, muttering thunder, some sad drops Wept at completing of the mortal sin.'

As all nature suffered by the guilt of our first parents, these symptoms of trouble and consternation are wonderfully imagined, not only as prodigies, but as marks of her sympathising in the fall of man.

Adam's converse with Eve, after having eaten the forbidden fruit, is an exact copy of that between Jupiter and Juno in the fourteenth Iliad. Juno there approaches Jupiter with the girdle which she had received from Venus; upon which he tells her, that she appeared more charming and desirable than she had ever done before, even when their loves were at the highest. The poet afterwards describes them as reposing on a summit of mount Ida, which produced under them a bed of flowers, the lotus, the crocus, and the hyacinth; and concludes his description with their falling asleep.

Let the reader compare this with the following passage in Milton, which begins with Adam's speech to Eve:

"For never did thy beauty, since the day
I saw thee first, and wedded thee, adorn'd
With all perfections, so inflame my sense
With ardour to enjoy thee, fairer now
Than ever, bounty of this virtuous tree,"

So said be, and forbore not glance or toy
Of amorous intent, well understood
Of Eve, whose eye darted contagious fire.
Her hand he seiz'd, and to a shady bank,
Thick over-head with verdant roof embower'd,
He led her nothing loth; flowers were the couch,
Pansies, and violets, and asphodel,
And hyacinth, Earth's freshest softest lap.
There they their fill of love and love's disport
Took largely of their mutual guilt the seal,
The solace of their sin, till dewy sleep
Oppress'd them

As no poet seems ever to have studied Homer more, or to have more resembled him in the greatness of genius, than Milton, I think I should have given but a very imperfect account of its beauties, if I had not observed the most remarkable passages which look like parallels in these two great authors. I might, in the course of these criticisms, have taken notice of many particular lines and expressions which are translated from the Greek poet; but as I thought this would have appeared too minute and over-curious, I have purposely omitted them. The greater incidents, however, are not only set off by being shown in the same light with several of the same nature in Homer, but by that means may be also guarded against the cavile of the tasteless or ignorant.

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with the talk he generally meets with. Will takes notice, that there is now an evil under the sun which he supposes to be entirely new, because not mentioned by any satirist, or moralist, in any age, Men,' said he,grow knaves sooner than they ever did since the creation of the world before. If you read the tragedies of the last age, you find the artful men, aud persons of intrigue, are advanced very far in years, and beyond the pleasures and sallies of youth; but now Will observes, that the young have taken in the vices of the aged, and you shall have a man of five-and-twenty, crafty, false, and intriguing, not ashamed to overreach, cozen, and beguile. My friend adds, that, till about the latter end of King Charles's reign, there was not a rascal of any eminence under forty, In the places of resort for conversation, you now hear nothing but what relates to the improving men's fortunes, without regard to the methods towards it. This is so fashionable, that young men form themselves upon a certain neglect of every thing that is candid, simple, and worthy of true esteem; and affect being yet worse than they are, by acknowledging, in their general turn of mind and discourse, that they have not any remaining value for true honour and honesty; preferring the capacity of being artful to gain their ends, to the merit of despising those ends when they come in competition with their honesty. All this is due to the very silly pride that generally prevails, of being valued for the ability of carrying their point; in a word, from the opinion that shallow and unexperienced people entertain of the shortlived force of cunning. But I shall, before I enter upon the various faces, which folly, covered with artifice, puts on to impose upon the unthinking, produce a great authority * for asserting, that nothing but truth and ingenuity has any lasting good effect, even upon a man's fortune and inte

rest.

Truth and reality have all the advantages of appearance, and many more. If the show of any thing be good for any thing, I am sure sincerity is better; for why does any man dissemble, or seem to be that which he is not, but because he thinks it good to have such a quality as he pretends to? for to counterfeit and dissemble, is to put on the appearance of some real excellency. Now the best way in the world for a man to seem to be any thing, is really to be what he would seem to be. Besides that it is many times as troublesome to make good the pretence of a good quality, as to have it; and if a man have it not, it is ten to one but he is discovered to want it, and then all his pains and labour to seem to have it, is lost. There is something unnatural in painting, which a skilful eye will easily discern from native beauty, and complexion.

It is hard to personate and act a part long; for where truth is not at the bottom, nature will always be endeavouring to return, and will peep out and betray herself one time or other. Therefore if any man think it convenient to seem good, let him be so indeed, and then his goodness will appear to every body's satisfaction; so that upon all accounts sincerity is true wisdom. Particularly as to the affairs of this world, integrity hath many advantages over all the fine and artificial ways of dissimulation and deceit; it is much the plainer and easier, much the safer and more secure way of dealing in the world; it has less of trouble and

The following Extracts are from the Sermons of Abp. Tillotson, in folio, vol. ii. Serm. i.

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difficulty, of intanglement and perplexity, of danger and hazard, in it; it is the shortest and nearest way to our end, carrying us thither in a straight line, and will hold out and last longest. The arts of deceit and cunning do continually grow weaker, and less effectual and serviceable to them that we them; whereas integrity gains strength by use, and the more and longer any man practiseth it, the greater service it does him, by confirming his repu tation, and encouraging those with whom he beth to do, to repose the greatest trust and confidence in him, which is an unspeakable advantage in the business and affairs of life.

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Truth is always consistent with itself, and needs nothing to help it out; it is always near at hand, and sits upon our lips, and is ready to drop out before we are aware; whereas a lie is trouble. some, and sets a man's invention upon the rack, and one trick needs a great many more to make it good. It is like building upon a false foundation, which continually stands in need of props to shore it up, and proves at last more chargeable, than to have raised a substantial building at first upon a true and solid foundation; for sincerity is firm and substantial, and there is nothing hollow and us sound in it, and because it is plain and open, fear no discovery; of which the crafty man is alway in danger; and when he thinks he walks in the dark, all his pretences are so transparent, that be that runs may read them; he is the last man that finds himself to be found out, and whilst be take it for granted that he makes fools of others, be renders himself ridiculous.

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Add to all this, that sincerity is the most compendious wisdom, and an excellent instrument for i the speedy dispatch of business; it creates cont dence in those we have to deal with, saves the labour of many inquiries, and brings things to an issue in a few words. It is like travelling in a plain beaten road, which commonly brings a man sooner to his journey's end than by-ways, in which men often lose themselves. In a word, whatsoever conveniencies may be thought to be in falsehood and dissimulation, it is soon over; but the inconvenience of it is perpetual, because it brings man under an everlasting jealousy and suspicion, so that he is not believed when he speaks truth, nor trusted perhaps when he means honestly. When a man has once forfeited the reputation of his integrity, he is set fast; and nothing will thes serve his turn, neither truth nor falsehood.

'And I have often thought, that God hath in his great wisdom hid from men of false and dishonest minds, the wonderful advantages of truth and integrity to the prosperity even of our worldly affairs: these men are so blinded by their covelousness and ambition, that they cannot look beyond a present advantage, nor forbear to seize upon it, though by ways never so indirect: they cannot see so far as to the remotest consequence of a steady integrity, and the vast benefit and advastages which it will bring a man at last. Were bot this sort of men wise and clear-sighted enough to discern this, they would be honest out of very knavery, not out of any love to honesty and vir tue, but with a crafty design to promote and advance more effectually their own interests; and therefore the justice of the Divine Providence bath hid this truest point of wisdom from their eyes, that bad men might not be upon equal terms with the just and upright, and serve their own wicked designs by honest and lawful means.

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Indeed, if a man were only to deal in the world for a day, and should never have occas

to converse more with mankind, never more need their good opinion or good word, it were then no great matter (speaking as to the concernments of this world) if a man spent his reputation all at once, and ventured it at one throw: but if he be to continue in the world, and would have the advantage of conversation whilst he is in it, let him make use of truth and sincerity in all his words and actions; for nothing but this will last and hold out to the end: all other arts will fail, but truth and integrity will carry a man through, and bear him out to the last.'

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SIR, 'I TAKE the liberty to send you a fourth letter upon the education of youth. In my last I gave you my thoughts about some particular tasks which I conceived it might not be amiss to mix with their usual exercises, in order to give them an early seasoning of virtue; I shall in this propose some others, which I fancy might contribute to give them a right turn for the world, and enable them to make their way in it.

The design of learning is, as I take it, either to render a man an agreeable companion to himself, and teach him to support solitude with pleasure; or, if he is not born to an estate, to supply that defect, and furnish him with the means of acquiring one. A person who applies himself to learning with the first of these views, may be said to study for ornament; as he who proposes to himself the second, properly studies for use. The one does it to raise himself a fortune; the other, to set off that which he is already possessed of. But as far the greater part of mankind are included in the latter class, I shall only propose some methods at present for the service of such who expect to advance themselves in the world by their learning. In order to which I shall premise, that many more estates have been acquired by little accomplish ments than by extraordinary ones; those qualities which make the greatest figure in the eye of the world, not being always the most useful in themselves, or the most advantageous to their owners.

The posts which require men of shining and uncommon parts to discharge them, are so very few, that many a great genius goes out of the world without ever having had an opportunity to exert itself; whereas persons of ordinary endowments meet with occasions fitted to their parts and capacities every day in the common occurrences of life.

I am acquainted with two persons who were formerly school-fellows+, and have been good friends ever since. One of them was not only thought an

• See Nos. 307, 313, and 337.

• Stratford is + Dean Swift, and Mr. Stratford, a merchant. worth a plumb, and is now lending the government 40,000 4.; yet we were educated together at the same school and university. Swift's Works, vol. xiv. p. 201, 8vo. edit. 1801. See also in the same volume, p. 202, and vol. xv. p. 227, 2477-279.

impenetrable blockhead at school, but still maintained his reputation at the university; the other was the pride of his master, and the most celebrated person in the college of which he was a member. The man of genius is at present buried in a country parsonage of eight-score pounds a year; while the other, with the bare abilities of a common scrivener, has got an estate of above an hundred thousand pounds.

'I fancy, from what I have said, it will almost appear a doubtful case to many a wealthy citizen, whether or no he ought to wish his son should be a great genius: but this I am sure of, that nothing is more absurd than to give a lad the education of one, whom nature has not favoured with any particular marks of distinction.

The fault, therefore, of our grammar-schools is, that every boy is pushed on to works of genius: whereas it would be far more advantageous for the greatest part of them to be taught such little practical arts and sciences as do not require any great share of parts to be master of them, and yet may come often into play during the course of a man's life.

'Such are all the parts of practical geometry. I have known a man contract a friendship with a minister of state, upon cutting a dial in his window; and remember a clergyman who got one of the best benefices in the west of England, by setting a country gentleman's affairs in some method, and giving him an exact survey of his estate.

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While I am upon this subject, I cannot forbear mentioning a particular which is of use in every station of life, and which methinks every master should teach his scholars; I mean the writing of English letters. To this end, instead of perplexing them with Latin epistles, themes, and verses, there might be a punctual correspondence established between two boys, who might act in any imaginary parts of business, or be allowed sometimes to give a range to their own fancies, and communicate to each other whatever trifles they thought fit, provided neither of them ever failed at the appointed time to answer his correspondent's letter.

'I believe I may venture to affirm, that the generality of boys would find themselves more advantaged by this custom, when they come to be meu, than by all the Greek and Latin their masters can teach them in seven or eight years.

'The want of it is very visible in many learned persons, who, while they are admiring the styles of Demosthenes or Cicero, want phrases to express themselves on the most common occasions. I have seen a letter from one of these Latin orators, which would have been deservedly laughed at by a common attorney.

Under this head of writing, I cannot omit accompts and short-hand, which are learned with little pains, and very properly come into the number of such arts as I have been here recommending.

You must doubtless, sir, observe, that I have hitherto chiefly insisted upon these things for such boys as do not appear to have any thing extraor dinary in their natural talents, and consequently are not qualified for the finer parts of learning; yet I believe I might carry this matter still further, and venture to assert, that a lad of genius has sometimes occasion for these little acquirements, to be as it were the forerunners of his parts, and to introduce him into the world.

"History is full of examples of persons who, though they have had the largest abilities, have been obliged to insinuate themselves into the favour of great men by these trivial accomplish

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