turned upside down." "Perhaps," said I,
"these were not Virgil's thoughts, but those of the transcriber." "I do
not design it," says Tom, "as a reflection on Virgil: on the contrary, I
know that all the manuscripts 'reclaim' against such a punctuation. Oh!
Mr. Bickerstaff," says he, "what would a man give to see one simile of
Virgil writ in his own hand?" I asked him which was the simile he meant;
but was answered, "Any simile in Virgil." He then told me all the secret
history in the commonwealth of learning; of modern pieces that had the
names of ancient authors annexed to them; of all the books that were now
writing or printing in the several parts of Europe; of many amendments
which are made, and not yet published; and a thousand other particulars,
which I would not have my memory burdened with for a Vatican.

At length, being fully persuaded that I thoroughly admired him, and
looked upon him as a prodigy of learning, he took his leave. I know
several of Tom's class who are professed admirers of Tasso without
understanding a word of Italian; and one in particular, that carries a
"Pastor Fido" in his pocket, in which I am sure he is acquainted with no
other beauty but the clearness of the character.

There is another kind of pedant, who, with all Tom Folio's
impertinences, has greater superstructures and embellishments of Greek
and Latin, and is still more unsupportable than the other, in the same
degree as he is more learned. Of this kind very often are editors,
commentators, interpreters, scholiasts, and critics; and in short, all
men of deep learning without common sense. These persons set a greater
value on themselves for having found out the meaning of a passage in
Greek, than upon the author for having written it; nay, will allow the
passage itself not to have any beauty in it, at the same time that they
would be considered as the greatest men of the age for having
interpreted it. They will look with contempt upon the most beautiful
poems that have been composed by any of their contemporaries; but will
lock themselves up in their studies for a twelvemonth together, to
correct, publish, and expound, such trifles of antiquity as a modern
author would be contemned for. Men of the strictest morals, severest
lives, and the gravest professions, will write volumes upon an idle
sonnet that is originally in Greek or Latin; give editions of the most
immoral authors, and spin out whole pages upon the various readings of a