ardour as ever in study, and the same gaiety in company. I consider,
besides, that a man of sixty-five, by dying, cuts off only a few years
of infirmities; and though I see many symptoms of my literary
reputation's breaking out at last with additional lustre, I know that
I could have but few years to enjoy it. It is difficult to be more
detached from life than I am at present.

To conclude historically with my own character. I am, or rather was,
(for that is the style I must now use in speaking of myself, which
emboldens me the more to speak my sentiments)--I was, I say, a man of
mild disposition, of command of temper, of an open, social, and
cheerful humour, capable of attachment, but little susceptible of
enmity, and of great moderation in all my passions. Even my love of
literary fame, my ruling passion, never soured my temper,
notwithstanding my frequent disappointments. My company was not
unacceptable to the young and careless, as well as to the studious and
literary; and as I took a particular pleasure in the company of modest
women, I had no reason to be displeased with the reception I met with
from them. In a word, though most men, anywise eminent, have found
reason to complain of calumny, I never was touched, or even attacked
by her baleful tooth; and though I wantonly exposed myself to the rage
of both civil and religious factions, they seemed to be disarmed in my
behalf of their wonted fury. My friends never had occasion to
vindicate any one circumstance of my character and conduct: not but
that the zealots, we may well suppose, would have been glad to invent
and propagate any story to my disadvantage, but they could never find
any which they thought would wear the face of probability. I cannot
say there is no vanity in making this funeral oration of myself; but I
hope it is not a misplaced one; and this is a matter of fact which is
easily cleared and ascertained.