The approach of a peace[222] strikes a panic through our armies, though that of a battle could never do it, and they almost repent of their bravery, that made such haste to humble themselves and the French king.  The Duke of Marlborough, 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 men to subsist after a peace:  every one remembers the shifts they were driven to in the reign of King Charles II., when they could not furnish out a single paper of news, without lighting up a comet in Germany, or a fire in Moscow.  There scarce appeared a letter without a paragraph on an