He swears that it is a cask, and that it will never be anything better than a cask to eternity.

So if the god is content with it, we must even wonder at his taste, and be so too.
"Adieu! my dearest, dearest cousin.
W.C." Here, by way of contrast, is a letter written in the lowest spirits possible to Mr.Newton.

It displays literary grace inalienable even in the depths of hypochondria.

It also shows plainly the connexion of hypochondria with the weather.

January was a month to the return of which the sufferer always looked forward with dread as a mysterious season of evil.