As Agnes says, she has promised I should give you an account of a visit I have lately had, I will, if I have time, before any body comes in.  It was from a Mr. Pentycross, a clergyman and schoolmaster of Wallingford, of whom I had heard nothing for eight-and-twenty years; and then having only known him as a Blue-coat boy from Kingston:  and how that happened, he gave me this account last week.  He was born with a poetic impetus, and walked over hither with a copy of verses by no means despicable, which he begged old Margaret to bring up to me.  She refused; he supplicated.  At last she told him that her master was very learned, and that, if he would write something in the learned languages, especially in French, she would present his poem to me.  In the mean time, she yielded; I saw him, and let her show him the house.  I think he sent me an ode or two afterwards, and I never heard his name again till this winter, when I received a letter from him from his place’ of residence, with high compliments on some of my editions, and beseeching me to give him a print of myself, which I did send to him.  In the Christmas holidays he came to town for a few days, and called in Berkeley-square; but it was when I was too ill to see any body.  He then left a modest and humble letter, only begging that, some time or other, I would give him leave to see Strawberry Hill.  I sent him a note by Kirgate, that should he come to town in summer, and I should be well enough, he should certainly see my house.  Accordingly, about a fortnight ago, I let him know, that if he could fix any day in this month, I would give him a dinner and a bed.  He jumped at the offer, named Wednesday last, and came.  However, I considered that to pass a whole day with this unknown being might be rather too much.  I got Lysons, the parson, from Putney, to meet him:  but it would not have been necessary, for I found my Blue-coat boy grown to be a very sensible, rational, learned, and remaining a most modest personage, with an excellent taste for poetry-for he is an enthusiast for Dr. Darwin:  but, alas! infinitely too learned for me; for in the evening, upon questioning him about his own vein of poetry, he humbly drew out a paper, with proposition forty-seven of Euclid turned into Latin verse.  I shrunk back and cried, “Oh! dear Sir, how little you know me!  I have forgotten almost the little Latin I knew, and was always so incapable of learning mathematics, that I could not even get by heart the multiplication-table, as blind Professor Sanderson honestly told me, above threescore years ago, when I went to his lectures at Cambridge.”  After the first fortnight, he said to Me, “Young man, it would be cheating you to take your money; for you can never learn what I am trying to teach you.”  I was exceedingly mortified, and cried; for, being a prime minister’s son, I had firmly believed all the flattery with which I had been assured that my parts were capable of any thing.  I paid a private instructor for a year; but, at the year’s end, was forced to own Sanderson had been in the right; and here luckily ends, with my paper, my Penticrusade!