the reason, would see it, and so was satisfied without fear; took a strange bedfellow very willingly, Lady Devonshire's youngest boy, whom his nurse had brought wrapped in a blanket. Lady Devonshire came towards morning, and lay here; and had done so still, but for a second ill accident. Her brother, Lord Arran, who has been ill of a fever twelve days, was despaired of yesterday morning, and spots appeared; so she resolved to see him, and not to return hither, but to Somerset House, where the queen offered her lodgings. He is said to be dead, and I hear this morning it is a great blow to the family; and that he was a most dutiful son and kind friend to all his family. Thus we see what a day brings forth! and how momentary the things we set our hearts upon. O, I could heartily cry out, When will longed-for eternity come!' but our duty is to possess our souls with patience. I am unwilling to shake off all hopes about the brief, though I know them that went to the chancellor since the refusal to seal it, and his answer does not encourage one's hopes. But he is not a lover of smooth language, so in that respect we may not so soon despair. about my son. I fancy I saw the young man you mentioned to be One brought me six prayer-books as from you; also distributed three or four in the house. I sent for him, and asked him if there was no mistake. He said no. And after some other questions, I concluded him the same person. Doctor, I do assure you I put an entire trust in your sincerity to advise; but, as I told you, I shall ever take Lord Bedford along in all the concerns of the child. He thinks it early yet to put him to learn in earnest; so do you, I believe. My lord is afraid, if we take one for it, he will put him to it; yet I think perhaps to overcome my lord in that, and assure him he shall not be pressed. But I am much advised, and indeed inclined, if I could be fitted to my mind, to take a Frenchman; so I shall do a charity, and profit the child also, who shall learn French. Here are many scholars come over, as are of all kinds, God knows. I have still a charge with me, Lady Devonshire's daughter, who is just come into my chamber; so must break off. I am, sir, truly your faithful servant. The young lady tells me Lord Arran is not dead, but rather better. [To Lord Cavendish-Bereavement.] Though I know my letters do Lord Cavendish no service, yet, as a respect I love to pay him, and to thank him also for his last from Limbeck, I had not been so long silent, if the death of two persons, both very near and dear to me, had not made me so uncomfortable to myself, that I knew I was utterly unfit to converse where I would never be ill company. The separation of friends is grievous. My sister Montague was one I loved tenderly; my Lord Gainsborough was the only son of a sister I loved with too much pas. sion they both deserved to be remembered kindly by all that knew them. They both began their race long after me, and I hoped should have ended it so too; but the great and wise Disposer of all things, and who knows where it is best to place his creatures, either in this or in the other world, has ordered it otherwise. The best improvement we can make in these cases, and you, my dear lord, rather than I, whose glass runs low, while you are young, and I hope have many happy years to come, is, I say, that we should all reflect there is no passing through this to a better world without some crosses; and the scene sometimes shifts so fast, our course of life may be ended before we think we have gone half way; and that a happy eternity depends on our spending well or ill that time allotted us here for probation. Is one that would fain make himself that which nature never meant him; like a fanatic that inspires himself with his own whimsies. He sets up haberdasher of small poetry, with a very small stock, and no credit. He believes it is invention enough to find out other men's wit; and whatsoever he lights upon, either in books or company, he makes bold with as his own. This he puts together so untowardly, that you may perceive his own wit has the rickets, by the swelling disproportion of the joints. You may know his wit not to be natural, 'tis so unquiet and troublesome in him: for as those that have money but seldom, are always shaking their pockets when they have it, so does he, when he thinks he has got something that will make him appear. He is a perpetual talker; and you may know by the freedom of his discourse that he came lightly by it, as thieves spend freely what they get. He is like an Italian thief, that never robs but he murders, to prevent discovery; so sure is he to cry down the man from whom he purloins, that his petty larceny of wit may pass unsuspected. He appears so over-concerned in all men's wits, as if they were but disparagements of his own; and cries down all they do, as if they were encroachments upon him. He takes jests from the owners and breaks them, as justices do false weights, and pots that want measure. When he meets with anything that is very good, he changes it into small money, like three groats for a shilling, to serve several occasions. He disclaims study, pretends to take things in motion, and to shoot flying, which appears to be very true, by his often missing of his mark. As for epithets, he always avoids those that are near akin to the sense. Such matches are unlawful, and not fit to be made by a Christian poet; and therefore all his care is to choose out such as will serve, like a wooden leg, to piece out a maimed verse that wants a foot or two, and if they will but rhyme now and then into the bargain, or run upon a letter, it is a work of supererogation. For similitudes, he likes the hardest and most obscure best; for as ladies wear black patches to make their complexions seem fairer than they are, so when an illustration is more obscure than the sense that went before it, it must of necessity make it appear clearer than it did; for contraries are best set off with contraries. He has found out a new sort of poetical Georgics-a trick of sowing wit like clover-grass on barren subjects, which would yield nothing before. This is very useful for the times, wherein, some men say, there is no room left for new invention. He will take three grains of wit, like the elixir, and, projecting it upon the iron age, turn it immediately into gold. All the business of mankind Butler, author of Hudibras. ter. London: 1759.' We have specified this title fully, because there is a spurious compilation, entitled 'Butler's Posthumous Works. London: 1720. Only three out of fifty pieces, which make up the latter collection, are genuine pro Live virtuously, my lord, and you cannot die tooductions of Butler. nas presently vanished, the whole world has kept holiday; there has been no men but heroes and poets, no women but nymphs and shepherdesses: trees have borne fritters, and rivers flowed plum-porridge. When he writes, he commonly steers the sense of his lines by the rhyme that is at the end of them, as butchers do calves by the tail. For when he has made one line, which is easy enough, and has found out some sturdy hard word that will but rhyme, he will hammer the sense upon it, like a piece of hot iron upon an anvil, into what form he pleases. There is no art in the world so rich in terms as poetry; a whole dictionary is scarce able to contain them; for there is hardly a pond, a sheep-walk, or a gravel-pit in all Greece, but the ancient name of it is become a term of art in poetry. By this means, small poets have such a stock of able hard words lying by them, as dryades, hamadryades, aönides, fauni, nymphae, sylvani, &c., that signify nothing at all; and such a world of pedantic terms of the same kind, as may serve to furnish all the new inventions and thorough reformations' that can happen between this and Plato's great year. A Vintner Hangs out his bush to show he has not good wine; for that, the proverb says, needs it not. He had rather sell bad wine than good, that stands him in no more; for it makes men sooner drunk, and then they are the easier over-reckoned. By the knaveries he acts above-board, which every man sees, one may easily take a measure of those he does under-ground in his cellar; for he that will pick a man's pocket to his face, will not stick to use him worse in private, when he knows nothing of it. He does not only spoil and destroy his wines, but an ancient reverend proverb, with brewing and racking, that says, ' In vino veritas;' for there is no truth in his, but all false and sophisticated; for he can counterfeit wine as cunningly as Apelles did grapes, and cheat men with it, as he did birds. He is an Antichristian cheat, for Christ turned water into wine, and he turns wine into water. He scores all his reckonings upon two tables, made like those of the Ten Commandments, that he may be put in mind to break them as oft as possibly he can; especially that of stealing and bearing false witness against his neighbour, when he draws him bad wine, and swears it is good, and that he can take more for the pipe than the wine will yield him by the bottle-a trick that a Jesuit taught him to cheat his own conscience with. When he is found to over reckon notoriously, he has one common evasion for all, and that is, to say it was a mistake; by which he means, that he thought they had not been sober enough to discover it; for if it had passed, there had been no error at all in the case. A Prater Is a common nuisance, and as great a grievance to those that come near him, as a pewterer is to his neighbours. His discourse is like the braying of a mortar, the more impertinent, the more voluble and loud, as a pestle makes more noise when it is rung on the sides of a mortar, than when it stamps downright, and hits upon the business. A dog that opens upon a wrong scent will do it oftener than one that never opens but upon a right. He is as long-winded as a ventiduct, that fills as fast as it empties; or a tradewind, that blows one way for half a year together, and another as long, as if it drew in its breath for six months, and blew it out again for six more. He has no mercy on any man's ears or patience that he can get within his sphere of activity, but tortures him, as they correct bovs in Scotland, by stretching their lugs without remorse. He is like an ear-wig, when he gets within a man's ear, he is not easily to be got out again. He is a siren to himself, and has no way to escape shipwreck but by having his mouth stopped instead of his ears. He plays with his tongue as a cat does with her tail, and is transported with the delight he gives himself of his own making. An Antiquary Is one that has his being in this age, but his life and conversation is in the days of old. He despises the present age as an innovation, and slights the future; but has a great value for that which is past and gone, like the madman that fell in love with Cleopatra. All his curiosities take place of one another according to their seniority, and he values them not by their abilities, but their standing. He has a great veneration for words that are stricken in years, and are grown so aged that they have outlived their employments. These he uses with a respect agreeable to their antiquity, and the good services they have done. He is a great time-server, but it is of time out of mind to which he conforms exactly, but is wholly retired from the present. His days were spent and gone long before he came into the world; and since, his only business is to collect what he can out of the ruins of them. He has so strong a natural affection dust and worms, 'you are my father,' and to rottento anything that is old, that he may truly say to ness, thou art my mother.' He has no providence nor foresight, for all his contemplations look backward upon the days of old, and his brains are turned with them, as if he walked backwards. He values things wrongfully upon their antiquity, forgetting that the most modern are really the most ancient of all things in the world, like those that reckon their pounds before their shillings and pence, of which they are made up. He esteems no customs but such as have outlived themselves, and are long since out of use; as the Catholics allow of no saints but such as are dead, and the fanatics, in opposition, of none but the living. WALTER CHARLETON. Another lively describer of human character, who flourished in this period, was DR WALTER CHARLETON (1619-1707), physician to Charles II., a friend of Hobbes, and for several years president of the College of Physicians in London. He wrote many works on theology, natural history, natural philosophy, medicine, and antiquities; in which last department his most noted production is a treatise published in 1663, maintaining the Danish origin of Stonehenge on Salisbury Plain, in opposition to Inige Jones, who attributed that remarkable structure to the Romans. The work, however, which seems to deserve more particularly our attention in this place is, A Brief Discourse concerning the Different Wits of Men, published by Dr Charleton in 1675. It is interesting, both on account of the lively and accurate sketches of character which it contains, and because the author, like a sect whose opinions have lately attracted much notice, attributes the varieties of talent which are found among men to differences in the form, size, and quality of their brains.* We shall give two of his happiest sketches. The Ready and Nimble Wit. Such as are endowed wherewith have a certain extemporary acuteness of conceit, accompanied with a quick delivery of their thoughts, so as they can at *See Phrenological Journal, vii. 597. whereby they might be redeemed from obscurity, and raised to employments answerable to their faculties, and crowned with honours proportionate to their merits. The best course, therefore, for these to overcome that eclipse which prejudice usually brings upon them, is to contend against their own modesty, and either, by frequent converse with noble and discerning spirits, to enlarge the windows of their minds, and dispel those clouds of reservedness that darken the lustre of their faculties; or by writing on some new and useful subject, to lay open their talent, so that the world may be convinced of their intrinsic value. of the chapters, as a specimen of the style in which the ancient classics were faithfully Englished' in the middle of the seventeenth century. pleasure entertain their auditors with facetious passages and fluent discourses even upon slight occasions; but being generally impatient of second thoughts and deliberations, they seem fitter for pleasant colloquies and drollery than for counsel and design; like flyboats, good only in fair weather and shallow waters, and then, too, more for pleasure than traffic. If they be, as for the most part they are, narrow in the hold, and destitute of ballast sufficient to counterpoise their large sails, they reel with every blast of argument, and are often driven upon the sands of a nonplus; but where favoured with the breath of common applause, they sail smoothly and proudly, and, like the city pageants, discharge whole volleys of squibs In 1670 Dr Charleton published a vigorous transand crackers, and skirmish most furiously. But take them from their familiar and private conversation lation of Epicurus's Morals,' prefaced by an earnest We extract one into grave and severe assemblies, whence all extem-vindication of that philosopher. porary flashes of wit, all fantastic allusions, all personal reflections, are excluded, and there engage them in an encounter with solid wisdom, not in light skirmishes, but a pitched field of long and serious debate concerning any important question, and then you shall soon discover their weakness, and contemin that barrenness of understanding which is incapable of struggling with the difficulties of apodictical knowledge, and the deduction of truth from a long series of reasons. Again, if those very concise sayings and lucky repartees, wherein they are so happy, and which at first hearing were entertained with so much of pleasure and admiration, be written down, and brought to a strict examination of their pertinency, coherence, and verity, how shallow, how frothy, how forced will they be found how much will they lose of that applause, which their tickling of the ear and present flight through the imagination had gained! In the greatest part, therefore, of such men, you ought to expect no deep or continued river of wit, but only a few plashes, and those, too, not altogether free from mud and putrefaction. The Slow but Sure Wit. Some heads there are of a certain close and reserved constitution, which makes them at first sight to promise as little of the virtue wherewith they are endowed, as the former appear to be above the imperfections to which they are subject. Somewhat slow they are, indeed, of both conception and expression; yet no whit the less provided with solid prudence. When they are engaged to speak, their tongue doth not readily interpret the dictates of their mind, so that their language comes, as it were, dropping from their lips, even where they are encouraged by familiar intreaties, or provoked by the smartness of jests, which sudden and nimble wits have newly darted at them. Costive they are also in invention; so that when they would deliver somewhat solid and remarkable, they are long in secking what is fit, and as long in determining in what manner and words to utter it. But, after a little consideration, they penetrate deeply into the substance of things and marrow of business, and conceive proper and emphatic words by which to express their sentiments. Barren they are not, but a little heavy and retentive. Their gifts lie deep and concealed; but being furnished with notions, not airy and umbratil ones borrowed from the pedantism of the schools, but true and useful-and if they have been manured with good learning, and the habit of exercising their pen-oftentimes they produce many excellent conceptions, worthy to be transmitted to posterity. Having, however, an aspect very like to narrow and dull capacities, at first sight most men take them to be really such, and strangers look upon them with the eyes of neglect and contempt. Hence it comes, that excellent parts remaining unknown, often want the favour and patronage of great persons, Of Modesty, opposed to Ambition. Concerning this great virtue, which is the fourth branch of temperance, there is very little need of saying more than what we have formerly intimated, when we declared it not to be the part of a wise man to affect greatness, or power, or honours in a commonwealth; but so to contain himself, as rather to live not only privately, but even obscurely and concealed in some secure corner. And therefore the advice we shall chiefly inculcate in this place shall be the very same we usually give to our best friends. Live private and concealed (unless some circumstance of state call you forth to the assistance of the public), insomuch as experience frequently confirms the truth of that proverbial saying, 'He hath well lived who hath well con cealed himself.' Certainly, it hath been too familiarly observed, that many, who had mounted up to the highest pinnacle of honour, have been on a sudden, and, as it were, with a thunderbolt, thrown down to the bottom of misery and contempt; and so been brought, though too late, to acknowledge, that it is much better for a man quietly and peaceably to obey, than, by laborious climbing up the craggy rocks of ambition, to aspire to command and sovereignty; and to set his foot rather upon the plain and humble ground, than upon that slippery height, from which all that can be with reason expected, is a precipitous and ruinous downfall. Besides, are not those grandees, upon whom the admiring multitude gaze, as upon refulgent comets, and prodigies of glory and honour; are they not, we say, of all men the most unhappy, in this one respect, that their breasts swarm with most weighty and troublesoine cares, that incessantly gall and corrode their very hearts? Beware, therefore, how you believe that such live securely and tranquilly; since it is impossible but those who are feared by many should themselves be in continual fear of some. Though you see them to be in a manner environed with power, to have navies numerous enough to send abroad into all seas, to be in the heads of mighty and victorious armies, to be guarded with well armed and faithful legions; yet, for all this, take heed you do not conceive them to be the only happy men, nay, that they partake so much as of one sincere pleasure; for all these things are mere pageantry, shadows gilded, and ridiculous dreams, insomuch as fear and care are not things that are afraid of the noise of arms, or regard the brightness of gold, or the splendour of purple, but boldly intrude themselves even into the hearts of princes and potentates, and, like the poet's vulture, daily gnaw and consume them. Beware, likewise, that you do not conceive that the body is made one whit the more strong, or healthy, by the glory, greatness, and treasures of monarchy, espe cially when you may daily observe, that a fever doth as violently and long hold him who lies upon a bed of tissue, under a covering of Tyrian scarlet, as him that lies upon a mattress, and hath no covering but rags; and that we have no reason to complain of the want of scarlet robes, of golden embroideries, jewels, and ropes of pearl, while we have a coarse and easy garment to keep away the cold. And what if you, lying cheerfully and serenely upon a truss of clean straw, covered with rags, should gravely instruct men how vain those are who, with astonished and turbulent minds, gape and thirst after the trifles of magnificence, not understanding how few and small those things are which are requisite to a happy life? believe me, your discourse would be truly magnificent and high, because delivered by one whose own happy experience confirms it. What though your house do not shine with silver and gold hatchments; nor your arched roofs resound with the multiplied echoes of loud music; nor your walls be not thickly beset with golden figures of beautiful youths, holding great lamps in their extended arms, to give light to your nightly revels and sumptuous banquets; why yet, truly, it is not a whit less (if not much more) pleasant to repose your wearied limbs upon the green grass, to sit by some cleanly and purling stream, under the refreshing shade of some well-branched tree, especially in the spring time, when the head of every plant is crowned with beautiful and fragrant flowers, the merry birds entertaining you with the music of their wild notes, the fresh western winds continually fanning your heats, and all nature smiling upon you. Wherefore, when any man may, if he please, thus live at peace and liberty abroad in the open fields, or his own gardens, what reason is there why he should affect and pursue honours, and not rather modestly bound his desires with the calmness and security of that condition? For, to hunt after glory by the ostentation of virtue, of science, of eloquence, of nobility, of wealth, of attendants, of rich cloths, of beauty, of garb, and the like, seriously, it is altogether the fame of ridiculous vanity; and in all things modesty exacts no more than this, that we do not, through rusticity, want of a decent garb, or too much negligence, do anything that doth not correspond with civility and decorum. For it is equally vile, and doth as much denote a base or abject mind, to grow insolent and lofty upon the possession of these adjuncts of magnificence, as to become dejected, or sink in spirit, at the loss or want of them. Now, according to this rule, if a wise man chance to have the statues or images of his ancestors, or other renowned persons of former ages, he will be very far from being proud of them, from showing them as badges of honour, from affecting a glory from the generosity of their actions and achievements; and as far from wholly neglecting them, but will place them (as memorials of virtue) indifferently either in his porch or gallery, or elsewhere. Nor will he be solicitous about the manner or place of his sepulture, or command his executors to bestow any great cost, or pomp and ceremony, at his funeral. The chief subject of his care will be, what may be beneficial and pleasant to his successors; being well assured that, as for his dead corpse, it will little concern him what becomes of it. For to propagate vanity even beyond death is the highest madness; and not much inferior thereto is the fancy of some, who in their lives are afraid to have their carcasses torn by the teeth of wild beasts after their death. For if that be an evil, why is it not likewise an evil to have the dead corpse burned, embalmed, and immersed in honey, to grow cold and stiff under a ponderous marble, to be pressed down by the weight of earth and passengers ! him a scholar almost in his boyhood; his studies at Queen's college, Cambridge, were attended with the highest triumphs of the university, and on entering life as a preacher in that city, he acquired the greatest popularity. He afterwards passed through a rapid succession of promotions, until he acquired the lectureship of the Savoy in London. On the breaking out of the civil war, Fuller attached Meanwhile, he published his History of the Holy War. himself to the king's party at Oxford, and he seems to have accompanied the army in active service for some years as chaplain to Lord Hopton. Even in these circumstances, his active mind busied itself in collecting materials for some of the works which he subsequently published. His company was at the same time much courted, on account of the extraordinary amount of intelligence which he had acquired, and a strain of lively humour which seems to have been quite irrepressible. The quaint and familiar nature of his mind disposed him to be less nice in the selection of materials, and also in their arrangement, than scholarly men generally are. He would sit patiently for hours listening to the prattle of old women, in order to obtain snatches of local history, traditionary anecdote, and proverbial wisdom. And these he has wrought up in his work entitled The Worthies of England, which is a strange melange of topography, biography, and popular antiquities. When the heat of the war was past, Fuller returned to London, and became lecturer at St Bride's church. He was now engaged in his Church History of Britain, which was given to the world in 1656, in one volume folio. Afterwards, he devoted himself to the preparation of his Worthies,' which he did not complete till 1660. Meanwhile, he had passed through some other situations in the church, the last of which was that of chaplain to Charles II. It was thought that he would have been made a bishop, if he had not been prematurely cut off by fever, a year after the Restoration. This extraordinary man possessed a tall and handsome person, and great conversational powers. He was of kind dispositions, and amiable in all the domestic relations of life. He was twice married; on the second occasion, to a sister of Viscount Bal Old St Bride's Church, Fleet Street. tinglass. As proofs of his wonderful memory, it is stated that he could repeat five hundred unconnected words after twice hearing them, and recite the whole of the signs in the principal thoroughfare of London after once passing through it and back again. His only other works of the least importance are The Profane and Holy States, and A Pisgah View of Palestine. · The principal work, the Worthies,' is rather a collection of brief memoranda than a regular composition, so that it does not admit of extract for these pages. While a modern reader smiles at the vast quantity of gossip which it contains, he must also be sensible that it has preserved much curious information, which would have otherwise been lost. The eminent men whose lives he records, are arranged by Fuller according to their native counties, of which he mentions also the natural productions, manufactures, medicinal waters, herbs, wonders, buildings, local proverbs, sheriffs, and modern battles. The style of all Fuller's works is extremely quaint and jocular; and in the power of drawing humorous comparisons, he is little, if at all, inferior to Butler himself. Bishop Nicolson, speaking of his Church History,' accuses him of being fonder of a joke than of correctness, and says that he is not scrupulous in his inquiry into the foundation of any good story that comes in his way. Even the most serious and authentic parts, of it are so interlaced with pun and quibble, that it looks as if the man had designed to ridicule the annals of our church into fable and romance." These animadversions, however, are accounted too strong. Fuller's 'Holy and Profane States' contains admirably drawn characters, which are held forth as examples to be respectively imitated and avoided; such as the Good * English Historical Library, p. 116. Father, the Good Soldier, the Good Master, and so on. In this and the other productions of Fuller, there is a vast fund of sagacity and good sense, frequently expressed in language so pithy, that a large collection of admirable and striking maxims might easily be extracted from his pages. We shall give samples of these, after presenting the character which he has beautifully drawn of The Good Schoolmaster. There is scarce any profession in the commonwealth more necessary, which is so slightly performed. The reasons whereof I conceive to be these:-First, young scholars make this calling their refuge; yea, perchance, before they have taken any degree in the university, commence schoolmasters in the country, as if nothing else were required to set up this profession but only a rod and a ferula. Secondly, others who are able, use it only as a passage to better preferment, to patch the rents in their present fortune, till they can provide a new one, and betake themselves to some more gainful calling. Thirdly, they are disheartened from doing their best with the miserable reward which in some places they receive, being masters to their children and slaves to their parents. Fourthly, being grown rich they grow negligent, and scorn to touch the school but by the proxy of the usher. But see how well our schoolmaster behaves himself. His genius inclines him with delight to his profession. Some men had as well be schoolboys as schoolmasters, to be tied to the school, as Cooper's Dictionary and Scapula's Lexicon are chained to the desk therein, and though great scholars, and skilful in other arts, are bunglers in this. But God, of his goodness, hath fitted several men for several callings, that the necessity of church and state, in all conditions, may be provided for. So that he who beholds the fabric thereof, may say, God hewed out the stone, and appointed it to lie in this very place, for it would fit none other so well, and here it doth most excellent. And thus God mouldeth some for a schoolmaster's life, undertaking it with desire and delight, and discharging it with dexterity and happy success. He studieth his scholars' natures as carefully as they their books; and ranks their dispositions into several forms. And though it may seem difficult for him in a great school to descend to all particulars, yet experienced schoolmasters may quickly make a grammar of boys' natures, and reduce them all (saving some few exceptions) to these general rules: 1. Those that are ingenious and industrious. The conjunction of two such planets in a youth presage much good unto him. To such a lad a frown may be a whipping, and a whipping a death; yea, where their master whips them once, shame whips them all the week after. Such natures he useth with all gentleness. 2. Those that are ingenious and idle. These think with the hare in the fable, that running with snails (so they count the rest of their schoolfellows), they shall come soon enough to the post, though sleeping a good while before their starting. Oh, a good rod would finely take them napping. 3. Those that are dull and diligent. Wines, the stronger they be, the more lees they have when they are new. Many boys are muddy-headed till they be clarified with age, and such afterwards prove the best. Bristol diamonds are both bright, and squared, and pointed by nature, and yet are soft and worthless; whereas orient ones in India are rough and rugged naturally. Hard, rugged, and dull natures of youth, acquit themselves afterwards the jewels of the country, and therefore their dulness at first is to be borne with, if they be diligent. That schoolmaster deserves to be beaten himself, who beats nature in a boy for a fault. And I question whether all the whipping in |