some cold water, when he was extremely hot, he had not thrown himself into a surfeit, which surfeit afterward terminated in an ague and fever, which remained on him a long time, and so greatly impaired all his faculties, as well as person, that he was scarce to be known, either by behaviour, or looks, for the man who, before that accident, had been infinitely regarded and esteemed for the politeness of the one, and the agreeableness of the other.

His limbs grew feeble, his body thin, and his face pale and wan, his temper sour and sullen, seldom caring to speak, and when he did it was with peevishness and ill-nature;—­every thing was to him an object of disquiet; nothing of delight; and he seemed, in all respects, like one who was weary of the world, and knew he was to leave it in a short time.

It is so natural to feel repugnance at the thoughts of being what they call no more; that is, no more as to the knowledge and affections of this world; that even those persons who labour under the severest afflictions, wish rather to continue in them, than be eased by death:—­they are pleased at any flattering hopes given of a prolongation of their present misery, and are struck with horror at the least mention of their life and pains being drawing to a period.—­More irksome, doubtless, it must still be to those, who having every thing they could wish for here, find they must soon be torn from all the blessings they enjoy.—­This is indeed a weakness; but it is a weakness of nature, and which neither religion nor philosophy are sufficient to arm us against; and the very endeavours we make to banish, or at least to conceal our disquiets on this score, occasion a certain peevishness in the sweetest temper, and make us behave with a kind of churlishness, even to those most dear to us.

Few, indeed, care to confess this truth, tho’ there are scarce any, who do not shew it in their behaviour, even at the very time they are forcing themselves to an affectation of indifference for life, and a resignation to the will of Heaven.

The great skill of his physicians, however, and the yet greater care his tender consort took to see their prescriptions obeyed with the utmost exactitude, at length recovered Natura from the brink of the grave.—­He was out of danger from the disease which had so long afflicted him; but though it had entirely left him, the attack had been too severe for a person at the age to which he was now arrived, to regain altogether the former man.—­He had, in his sickness, contracted habits, which he was unable to throw off in health, and he could no more behave, than look, as he had done before.