“Silence ensued for a full hour, after which Mr. Lintot tugged the reins, stopped short and broke out, ‘Well, sir, how far have you gone?’ I answered, ‘Seven miles.’ ‘Zounds, sir,’ said Lintot, ‘I thought you had done seven stanzas. Oldworth, in a ramble round Wimbleton hill, would translate a whole ode in half this time. I’ll say that for Oldworth (though I lost by his Sir Timothy’s), he translates an ode of Horace the quickest of any man in England. I remember Dr. King would write verses in a tavern three hours after he could not speak; and there’s Sir Richard, in that rambling old chariot of his, between Fleet ditch and St. Giles’s pound shall make half a job.’ ‘Pray, Mr. Lintot,’ said I, ‘now you talk of translators, what is your method of managing them?’ ‘Sir,’ replied he, ‘those are the saddest pack of rogues in the world; in a hungry fit, they’ll swear they understand all the languages in the universe. I have known one of them take down a Greek book upon my counter and cry, Ay, this is Hebrew. I must read it from the latter end. My God! I can never be sure of those fellows, for I neither understand Greek, Latin, French nor Italian myself.’ ‘Pray tell me next how you deal with the critics.’ ‘Sir’, said he, ‘nothing more easy. I can silence the most formidable of them; the rich ones for a sheet a-piece of the blotted manuscript, which costs me nothing; they’ll go about to their acquaintance and pretend they had it from the author, who submitted to their correction: this has given some of them such an air, that in time they come to be consulted with, and dictated to as the top critic of the town. As for the poor critics, I’ll give you one instance of my management, by which you may guess at the rest. A lean man, that looks like a very good scholar, came to me t’other day; he turned over your Homer, shook his head, shrugged up his shoulders, and pished at every line of it. One would wonder, says he, at the strange presumption of some men; Homer is no such easy task, that every stripling, every versifier--He was going on, when my wife called to dinner. ‘Sir,’ said I, ‘will you please to eat a piece of beef with me?’ ‘Mr. Lintot,’ said he, ‘I am sorry you should be at the expense of this great book; I am really concerned on your account.’ ‘Sir, I am much obliged to you; if you can dine upon a piece of beef, together with a slice of pudding.’ ‘Mr. Lintot, I do not say but Mr. Pope, if he would condescend to advise with men of learning--’ ‘Sir, the pudding is on the table, if you please to go in.’ My critic complies, he comes to a taste of your poetry, and tells me in the same breath that the book is commendable and the pudding excellent. These, my lord, are a few traits by which you may discern the genius of Mr. Lintot, which I have chosen for the subject of a letter. I dropt him as soon as I got to Oxford.”