spend all he has to maintain it.  He does not so much as know what opinion means, which, always supposing uncertainty, is not capable of confidence.  The more implicit his obstinacy is, the more stubborn it renders him; for implicit faith is always more pertinacious than that which can give an account of itself; and as cowards that are well backed will appear boldest, he that believes as the Church believes is more violent, though he knows not what it is, than he that can give a reason for his faith.  And as men in the dark endeavour to tread firmer than when they are in the light, the darkness of his understanding makes him careful to stand fast wheresoever he happens, though it be out of his way.

A CHOLERIC MAN

Is one that stands for madman, and has as many voices as another.  If he miss he has very hard dealing; for if he can but come to a fair polling of his fits against his intervals, he is sure to carry it.  No doubt it would be a singular advantage to him; for, as his present condition stands, he has more full moons in a week than a lunatic has in a year.  His passion is like tinder, soon set on fire and as soon out again.  The smallest occasion imaginable puts him in his fit, and then he has no respect of persons, strikes up the heels of stools and chairs, tears cards limbmeal without regard of age, sex, or quality, and breaks the bones of dice, and makes them a dreadful example to deter others from daring to take part against him.  He is guilty but of misprision of madness, and if the worst come to the worst, can but forfeit estate and suffer perpetual liberty to say what he pleases.  ’Tis true he is but a candidate of Bedlam, and is not yet admitted fellow, but has the license of the College to practise, and in time will not fail to come in according to his seniority.  He has his grace for madman, and has done his exercises, and nothing but his good manners can put him by his degree.  He is, like a foul chimney, easily set on fire, and then he vapours and flashes as if he would burn the house, but is presently put out with a greater huff, and the mere noise of a pistol reduces him to a quiet and peaceable temper.  His temper is, like that of a meteor, an imperfect mixture, that sparkles and flashes until it has spent itself.  All his parts are irascible, and his gall is too big for his liver.  His spleen makes others laugh at him, and as soon as his anger is over with others he begins to be angry with himself and sorry.  He is sick of a preposterous ague, and has his hot fit always before his cold.  The more violent his passion is the sooner it is out, like a running knot, that strains hardest, but is easiest loosed.  He is never very passionate but for trifles, and is always most temperate where he has least cause, like a nettle that stings worst when it is touched with soft and gentle fingers, but when it is bruised with rugged, hardened hands returns no harm at all.