and day he did nothing but mope. What would have become of him, his wife and daughter, his practice, his home, and his society, had he not, as he used to say, met with an angel, in the shape of a horse-dealer?

He was strolling, one evening, in a very melancholy mood, down Friday-street, not far from his own home, as he passed by the livery stables of John Tattsall, as the name was then spelt. John knew the doctor, and capped him with "A beautiful evening, sir."

The Doctor stopped, and looking very woefully in his face, said, "Yes, John, very beautiful to those who are well."

"Yes sir, and to those who are sick, too; and I wish they could enjoy it."

"John, I am very ill myself, and have been so for some time. I shall not write many more prescriptions!"

"I hope you won't, sir; I hope you won't."

"Why so, John? why so?"

"Because you gentlemen prescribe so much advice, and so seldom follow any good advice yourselves, that you are sure to die sooner than any other men. You all know too much about other people, and very little about yourselves."

"You are a blunt fellow, John; but I do not like you the less for that. You once consulted me, did you not?"

"Yes, sir, and you told me the truth; and I liked you all the better for it. You told me plainly there was nothing the matter with me. 'Go home,' you said, 'drink a glass of cold water just before you get into bed; and if that do not do you more good than any medicine I can give you, then come to me again, bring me another guinea, and I will give you the same advice.' I did as you advised, and it was the best cold water cure that ever was effected: I have never been ill since. But, Doctor, I have heard that you are out of sorts. One good turn deserves another, and if you will follow my advice, only for one week, you shall be a different man to what you now are. You shall soon earn your hundreds; and only give me one guinea in the hundred, and you will make my fortune and your own too."

"What is your advice? I will agree to the terms."

"Well, Doctor, let me tell you the truth. You have done too much,—studied too much,—wrote too much,—thought too much,—and have overdone everything, and now find you can do nothing. You are fast sinking into that lapsed condition in which you will soon become an inmate of Bedlam, if you go on as you 

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