A
Letter
from
Cambridge
to
a
young
Gentleman
at
Eton
School
.
By
Dr.
LITTLETON
.
THO'
plagu'd
with
algebraic
lectures
,
And
astronomical
conjectures
,
Wean'd
from
the
sweets
of
poetry
To
scraps
of
dry
philosophy
,
You
see
,
dear
sir
,
I've
found
a
time
T'
express
my
thoughts
to
you
in
rhime
.
For
why
,
my
friend
,
shou'd
distant
parts
,
Or
times
,
disjoin
united
hearts
,
Since
,
tho'
by
intervening
space
Depriv'd
of
speaking
face
to
face
,
By
faithful
emissary
letter
We
may
converse
as
well
,
or
better
?
And
not
to
stretch
a
narrow
fancy
,
To
shew
what
pretty
things
I
can
say
,
(
As
some
will
strain
at
simile
,
First
work
it
fine
,
and
then
apply
;
Tag
Butler's
rhimes
to
Prior's
thoughts
,
And
chuse
to
mimic
all
their
faults
,
By
head
and
shoulders
bring
in
a
stick
,
To
shew
their
knack
at
hudibrastic
,
)
I'll
tell
you
as
a
friend
,
and
crony
,
How
here
I
spend
my
time
,
and
money
;
For
time
,
and
money
,
go
together
As
sure
as
weathercock
,
and
weather
;
And
thrifty
guardians
all
allow
This
grave
reflection
to
be
true
,
That
whilst
we
pay
so
dear
for
learning
Those
weighty
truths
we've
no
concern
in
,
The
spark
who
squanders
time
away
In
vain
pursuits
,
and
fruitless
play
,
Not
only
proves
an
arrant
blockhead
,
But
,
what's
much
worse
,
is
out
of
pocket
.
Whether
my
conduct
bad
,
or
good
is
,
Judge
from
the
nature
of
my
studies
.
No
more
majestic
Virgil's
heights
,
Nor
tow'ring
Milton's
loftier
flights
,
Nor
courtly
Flaccus's
rebukes
,
Who
banters
vice
with
friendly
jokes
,
Nor
Congreve's
life
,
nor
Cowley's
fire
,
Nor
all
the
beauties
that
conspire
To
place
the
greenest
bays
upon
Th'
immortal
brows
of
Addison
;
Prior's
inimitable
ease
,
Nor
Pope's
harmonious
numbers
please
;
Homer
indeed
(
for
critics
shew
it
)
Was
both
philosopher
,
and
poet
,
But
tedious
philosophic
chapters
Quite
stifle
my
poetic
raptures
,
And
I
to
Phoebus
bade
adieu
When
first
I
took
my
leave
of
you
.
Now
algebra
,
geometry
,
Arithmetic
,
astronomy
,
Optics
,
chronology
,
and
statics
,
All
tiresome
parts
of
mathematics
;
With
twenty
harder
names
than
these
Disturb
my
brain
,
and
break
my
peace
.
All
seeming
inconsistencies
Are
nicely
solv'd
by
a's
,
and
b's
;
Our
eye-sight
is
disprov'd
by
prisms
,
Our
arguments
by
syllogisms
.
If
I
shou'd
confidently
write
This
ink
is
black
,
this
paper
white
,
Or
,
to
express
myself
yet
fuller
,
Shou'd
say
that
black
,
or
white's
a
colour
;
They'd
contradict
it
,
and
perplex
one
With
motion
,
rays
,
and
their
reflexion
,
And
solve
th'
apparent
falsehood
by
The
curious
texture
of
the
eye
.
Shou'd
I
the
poker
want
,
and
take
it
,
When't
looks
as
hot
,
as
fire
can
make
it
,
And
burn
my
finger
,
and
my
coat
,
They'd
flatly
tell
me
,
'tis
not
hot
;
The
fire
,
say
they
,
has
in't
,
'tis
true
,
The
pow'r
of
causing
heat
in
you
;
But
no
more
heat's
in
fire
that
heats
you
,
Than
there
is
pain
in
stick
that
beats
you
.
Thus
too
philosophers
expound
The
names
of
odour
,
taste
,
and
sound
;
The
salts
,
and
juices
in
all
meat
Affect
the
tongues
of
them
that
eat
,
And
by
some
secret
poignant
power
Give
them
the
taste
of
sweet
,
and
sour
.
Carnations
,
violets
,
and
roses
Cause
a
sensation
in
our
noses
;
But
then
there's
none
of
us
can
tell
The
things
themselves
have
taste
,
or
smell
.
So
when
melodious
Mason
sings
,
Or
Gethring
tunes
the
trembling
strings
,
Or
when
the
trumpet's
brisk
alarms
Call
forth
the
cheerful
youth
to
arms
,
Convey'd
thro'
undulating
air
The
music's
only
in
the
ear
.
We're
told
how
planets
roll
on
high
,
How
large
their
orbits
,
and
how
nigh
;
I
hope
in
little
time
to
know
Whether
the
moon's
a
cheese
,
or
no
;
Whether
the
man
in't
,
as
some
tell
ye
,
With
beef
and
carrots
fills
his
belly
;
Why
like
a
lunatic
confin'd
He
lives
at
distance
from
mankind
;
When
he
at
one
good
hearty
shake
,
Might
whirl
his
prison
off
his
back
;
Or
like
a
maggot
in
a
nut
Full
bravely
eat
his
passage
out
.
Who
knows
what
vast
discoveries
From
such
inquiries
might
arise
?
But
feuds
,
and
tumults
in
the
nation
Disturb
such
curious
speculation
.
Cambridge
from
furious
broils
of
state
,
Foresees
her
near-approaching
fate
;
Her
surest
patrons
are
remov'd
,
And
her
triumphant
foes
approv'd
.
No
more
!
this
due
to
friendship
take
,
Not
idly
writ
for
writing's
sake
;
No
longer
question
my
respect
,
Nor
call
this
short
delay
neglect
;
At
least
excuse
it
,
when
you
see
This
pledge
of
my
sincerity
;
For
one
who
rhimes
to
make
you
easy
,
And
his
invention
strains
to
please
you
,
To
shew
his
friendship
cracks
his
brains
,
Sure
is
a
mad-man
if
he
feigns
.