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" that it is my continual employment to trim the ba. " lance between these two volatile pounds in my con(stitution. In my ordinary meals I fetch myself up (to two hundred weight and half a pound; and if, af. ' ter having dined, I find myself fall short of it, I • drink just so much small beer, or eat such a quan

tity of bread, as is sufficient to make me weight. In "my greatest excesses I do not transgress more than • the other half pound; which, for my health's sake, "I do the first Monday in every month. As soon as ( I find myself duly poised after dinner, I walk till I

have perspired five ounces and four scruples; and ( when I discover, by my chair, that I am so far re• duced, I fall to my books, and study away three 1 ounces more. As for the remaining parts of the • pound, I keep no account of them. I do not dine ( and sup by the clock, but by my chair; for when • that informs me my pound of flesh is exhausted, I

conclude myself to be hungry, and lay in another 6 with all diligence. In my days of abstinence I lose ' a pound and an half, and on solemn fasts am two o pounds lighter than on other days in the year.

• I allow myself, one night with another, a quarter í of a pound of sleep within a few grains, more or « less; and if upon my rising I find that I have not o consumed my whole quantity, I take out the rest in (my chair. Upon an exact calculation of what I ex( pended and received the last year, which I always

register in a book, I find the medium to be two • hundred weight; so that I cannot discover that I 6 am impaired one ounce in my health during a whole • twelvemonth. And yet, Sir, notwithstanding this ' my great care to ballast myself equally every day • and to keep my body in its proper poise, so it is that • I find myself in a sick and languishing condition. "My complexion is grown very sallow, my pulse low, is and my body hydropical. Let me therefore beg

you, Sir', to consider me as your patient, and to

give me more certain rules to walk by than those ! I have already observed, and you will very much i oblige

"Your humble servant.'

This letter puts me in mind of an Italian epitaph, written on the monument of a valetudinarian; “ Sta« vo ben, ma per star meglio, sto qui :" which it is impossible to translate. The fear of death often proves mortal, and sets people on methods to save their lives, which infallibly destroy them. This is a reflection made by some historians, upon observing that there are many more thousands killed in a flight than in a battle'; and may be applied to those multitudes of imaginary sick persons that break their constitutions by physic, and throw themselves into the arms of death, by endeavouring to escape it. This method is not only dangerous, but below the practice of a reasonable creature. To consult the preservation of life as the only end of it, to make our health our business, to engage in no action that is not part of a regimen or course of physic, are purposes so abject, so mean, so unworthy of hunian nature, that a generous soul would rather die than submit to them. Besides that, a continual anxiety for life vitiates all the relishes of it, and casts a gloom over the whole face of nature ; as it is impossible we should take delight in any thing that we are every moment afraid of losing.

I do not mean, by what I have here said, that I think any one to blame for taking good care of their health. On the contrary, as cheerfulness of mind and capacity for business, are in a great measure the effects of a well-tempered constitution, a man cannot be at too much pains to cultivate and preserve it. But this care, which we are prompted to, not only by common sense but by duty and instinct, should never engage us in groundless fear's, melancholy apprehensi- ons, and imaginary distempers, which are natural to every man who is more anxious to live than how to live. In short, the preservation of life should be only. a secondary concern, and the direction of it our principal. If we have this frame of inind, we shall take the best means to preserve life, without being over solicitous about the event; and shall arrive at that point of felicity which Martial has mentioned as the perfection of happiness, of neither fearing nor wishing for death.

In answer to the gentleman who tempers his health by ounces :ind by scruples, and, instead of complying with those natural solicitations of hunger and thirst, drowsiness or love of exercise, governs himself by the prescriptions of his chair, I shall tell him a short fable. Jupiter, says the mythologist, to reward the piety of a certain countryman, promised to give him whatever he would ask; the countryman desired that he might have the management of the weather in his own estate: he obtained his request, and immediately distributed rain, snow, and sunshine among his several fields, as he thought the nature of his soil required. At the end of the year, when he expected to see a more than ordinary crop, his harvest fell infinitely short of that of his neighbours; upon which, says the fable, he desired Jupiter, to take the weather again into his own hands, or that otherwise he should utterly ruin himself.


Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas

Regumque turres. O beate sexti,
Vitæ summa brevis spem nos vetat inchoare longam.

Jam te premet nox, fabulæque manes,
Et domus exilis Plutonia-


With equal foot, rich friend, impartial fate

Knocks at the cottage, and the palace gate:
Life's span forbids thee to extend thy cares,

And stretch thy hopes beyond thy years:
Night soon will seize, and you must quickly go

To story'd ghosts, and Pluto's house below. CREECH.

WHEN I am in a serious humour, I very often walk by myself in Westminster-Abbey ; where the gloominess of the place, and the use to which it is applied, with the solemnity of the building, and the condition of the people who lie in it, are apt to fill the mind with a kind of melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness, that is not disagreeable. I yesterday passed a whole afternoon in the church-yard, the cloisters, and the church, amusing myself with the tomb-stones and inscriptions that I met with in those several regions of the dead. Most of them recorded nothing else of the buried person, but that he was born upon one day, and died upon another: the whole history of his life being comprehended in those two circumstances, that are common to all mankind. I could not but look upon these registers of existence, whether of brass or marble, as a kind of satire upon the departed persons; who had left no other memorial of them, but that they were born and that they died. They put me in mind of several persons mentioned in the battles of heroic poems, who have sounding names given them, for no other reason but that they may be killed, and are celebrated for nothing but being knocked on the head.

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TAũú x 6v Mư = T OF GIA (xsv T&. .
Glaucumque, Medontaque, Thersilochumque.
Glaucus, and Medon, and Thersilochus.

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The life of these men is finely described in Holy Writ by “ the Path of an Arrow," which is immediately closed up and lost.

Upon my going into the church, I entertained myself with the digging of a grave; and saw in every shovel-full of it that was thrown up, the fragment of a bone or skull intermixt with a kind of fresh mouldering earth that some time or other had a place in the composition of an human body. Upon this I began to consider with myself what innumerable multitudes of people lay confused together under the pavement of that ancient cathedral; how men and women, friends and enemies, priests and soldiers, monks and prebendaries, were crumbled amongst one another, and blendid together in the same common mass; how beauty, strength, and youth, with old age, weakness, and deformity, lay undistinguished in the same promiscuous heap of matter.

After having thus surveyed this great magazine of mortality, as it were in the lump, I examined it more particularly by the accounts which I found on several of the monuments which are raised in every quarter of that ancient fabric. Some of them were covered with such extravagant epitaphs, that if it were possible for the dead person to be acquainted with them, he would blush at the praises which his friends have bestowed upon him. There are others so excessively modest, that they deliver the character of the person departed in Greek or Hebrew, and by that means are not understood once in a twelvemonth. In the poetia cal quarter, I found there were poets who had no mo

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