“Since you consult me about this writing, I will fairly give you my opinion. I think it discreet and too much so. What! not a word against the government, against the manners, against religion! who will read you? If you did but know how tired people are with History, Morality, Phylosophy, Verse, Prose, and all that! The whole world are turned writers; and you will more easily find an author than a reader. How make impression on the crowd? How draw attention, unless by strokes levelled, right or wrong, against place-men; by luscious touches of imagination proper to excite the gust of pleasures blunted by excess; by the trite arguments which, though repeated a thousand times, still please, because they attack what we dread! This in my opinion is the only course for a writer to take who has any pretensions to fame. Mind our Philosophers: when they reflect, for instance, on the nature of the soul, they fall into a doubt which with all their reason they cannot get out of. Do they come to write? They resolve the difficulty, and the soul is mortal. If they assert this, it is not from an inward persuasion, but from a desire to write, and to write such things, as will be read. Again, if you had made yourself a party: if you belonged to one of those clubs, where the Censor passes from hand to hand, and where each, in his turn, is the Idol! But no; you are among the literary cabals like a divine who should pretend to be neither Jansenist nor Molinist[1]. Who, think ye, will take care of your interests? Who will preach you up? Who will inlist your name among those we respect?” I removed the end of the rod about a twentieth part of an inch lower and I heard, probably, a Farmer of the imposts, who was making his calculations upon the people.