"Montaigne's Essays," and finding little or no information in the
chapters of what their titles promised, he closed the book more confused
than satisfied.

"What think you of this famous French author?" said a gentleman present.

"Think!" said he, smiling. "Why that a pair of manacles, or a stone
doublet would probably have been of some service to that author's
infirmity."

"Would you imprison a man for singularity in writing?"

"Why let me tell you," replied Addison, "if he had been a horse he would
have been pounded for straying, and why he ought to be more favoured
because he is a man, I cannot understand."

A medical confession, frankly delivered by that eminent physician and
wit, Sir Samuel Garth, has been fortunately preserved; perhaps the truth
it reveals is as conspicuous as its humour.

Dr. Garth (so he is called in the manuscript) who was one of the Kit-Kat
Club, coming there one night, declared he must soon begone, having many
patients to attend; but some good wine being produced he forgot them.
When Sir Richard Steele reminded him of his appointments, Garth
immediately pulled out his list, which amounted to fifteen--and said,
"It's no great matter whether I see them to-night or not, for nine of
them have such bad constitutions, that all the physicians in the world
can't save them, and the other six have so good constitutions that all
the physicians in the world can't kill them."