, though otherwise the greatest general of the
age, has plainly shown himself unacquainted with the arts of husbanding
a war. He might have grown as old as the Duke of Alva, or Prince
Waldeck, in the Low Countries, and yet have got reputation enough every
year for any reasonable man: for the command of general in Flanders hath
been ever looked upon as a provision for life. For my part, I can't see
how his grace can answer it to the world, for the great eagerness he
hath shown to send a hundred thousand of the bravest fellows in Europe a
begging. But the private gentlemen of the infantry will be able to shift
for themselves; a brave man can never starve in a country stocked with
hen-roosts. "There is not a yard of linen," says my honoured progenitor,
Sir John Falstaff, "in my whole company; but as for that," says this
worthy knight, "I am in no great pain, we shall find shirts on every
hedge."[223] There is another sort of gentlemen whom I am much more
concerned for, and that is, the ingenious fraternity of which I have the
honour to be an unworthy member; I mean the news-writers of Great
Britain, whether Postmen or Postboys,[224] or by what other name or
title soever dignified or distinguished. The case of these gentlemen is,
I think, more hard than that of the soldiers, considering that they
have taken more towns, and fought more battles. They have been upon
parties and skirmishes, when our armies have lain still; and given the
general assault to many a place, when the besiegers were quiet in their
trenches. They have made us masters of several strong towns many weeks
before our generals could do it; and completed victories, when our
greatest captains have been glad to come off with a drawn battle. Where
Prince Eugene has slain his thousands, Boyer[225] has slain his ten
thousands. This, gentleman can indeed be never enough commended for his
courage and intrepidity during this whole war: he has laid about him
with an inexpressible fury, and like the offended Marius of ancient
Rome, made such havoc among his countrymen, as must be the work of two
or three ages to repair. It must be confessed, the redoubted Mr.
Buckley[226] has shed as much blood as the former; but I cannot forbear
saying (and I hope it will not look like envy) that we regard our
brother Buckley as a Drawcansir,[227] who spares neither friend nor foe,
but generally kills as many of his own side as the enemy's. It is
impossible for this ingenious sort of me