himself up to it, however, with the most painful
diligence, proceeding step by step in every line, with the same kind of
caution and circumspection (though I cannot say upon quite so religious
a principle) as was used by John de la Casse, the lord archbishop of
Benevento, in compassing his Galatea; in which his Grace of Benevento
spent near forty years of his life; and when the thing came out, it was
not of above half the size or the thickness of a Rider's Almanack.--How
the holy man managed the affair, unless he spent the greatest part
of his time in combing his whiskers, or playing at primero with his
chaplain,--would pose any mortal not let into the true secret;--and
therefore 'tis worth explaining to the world, was it only for the
encouragement of those few in it, who write not so much to be fed--as to
be famous.

I own had John de la Casse, the archbishop of Benevento, for
whose memory (notwithstanding his Galatea,) I retain the highest
veneration,--had he been, Sir, a slender clerk--of dull wit--slow
parts--costive head, and so forth,--he and his Galatea might have jogged
on together to the age of Methuselah for me,--the phaenomenon had not
been worth a parenthesis.--

But the reverse of this was the truth: John de la Casse was a genius of
fine parts and fertile fancy; and yet with all these great advantages of
nature, which should have pricked him forwards with his Galatea, he lay
under an impuissance at the same time of advancing above a line and
a half in the compass of a whole summer's day: this disability in his
Grace arose from an opinion he was afflicted with,--which opinion was
this,--viz. that whenever a Christian was writing a book (not for his
private amusement, but) where his intent and purpose was, bona fide, to
print and publish it to the world, his first thoughts were always the
temptations of the evil one.--This was the state of ordinary writers:
but when a personage of venerable character and high station, either in
church or state, once turned author,--he maintained, that from the very
moment he took pen in hand--all the devils in hell broke out of their
holes to cajole him.--'Twas Term-time with them,--every thought, first
and last, was captious;--how specious and good soever,--'twas
all one;--in whatever form or colour it presented itself to the
imagination,--'twas still a stroke of one or other of 'em levell'd at
him, and was to be fenced off.--So that the life of a writer, whatever
he migh