their attention, they will dread the
disgrace of not understanding what is said, and they will feel that
they cannot understand unless they exert prompt, vigorous, unremitted
attention.

The Duchess of Kingston used to complain that she could never acquire
any knowledge, because she never could meet with any body who could
teach her anything "in two words." Her Grace felt the same sort of
impatience which was expressed by the tyrant who expected to find a
royal road to Geometry.

Those who believe themselves endowed with genius, expect to find a
royal road in every science shorter, and less laborious, than the
beaten paths of industry. Their expectations are usually in proportion
to their ignorance; they see to the summit only of one hill, and they
do not suspect the Alps that will arise as they advance: but as
children become less presumptuous, as they acquire more knowledge, we
may bear with their juvenile impatience, whilst we take measures to
enlarge continually their sphere of information. We should not,
however, humour the attention of young people, by teaching them always
in the mode which we know suits their temper best. Vivacious pupils
should, from time to time, be accustomed to an exact enumeration of
particulars; and we should take opportunities to convince them, that
an orderly connection of proofs, and a minute observation of apparent
trifles, are requisite to produce the lively descriptions, great
discoveries, and happy inventions, which pupils of this disposition
are ever prone to admire with enthusiasm. They will learn not to pass
over _old_ things, when they perceive that these may lead to something
_new_; and they will even submit to sober attention, when they feel
that this is necessary even to the rapidity of genius. In the
"Curiosities of Literature," there has been judiciously preserved a
curious instance of literary patience; the rough draught of that
beautiful passage in Pope's translation of the Iliad which describes
the parting of Hector and Andromache. The lines are in Pope's
hand-writing, and his numerous corrections appear; the lines which
seem to the reader to have been struck off at a single happy stroke,
are proved to have been touched and retouched with the indefatigable
attention of a great writer. The fragment, with all its climax of
corrections, was shown to a young vivacious poet of nine years old, as
a practical lesson, to prove the necessity of patience to arrive at
perfection.