y, as the funds would so
rapidly come in; and if under the surveillance of the medical men who
attended the hospitals, it would soon become effective and valuable. I
trust if this should meet the eye of any real philanthropist who has
time to give, which is more valuable than money, that he will turn it
over in his mind:--the founder would be a benefactor to his country.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

May 25.
"A man cannot die more than once," is an old apothegm, and it would
appear bold to dispute it; but still there are lives within lives, such
as political lives, literary lives, etcetera, and there is also such a
thing as being dead in the eye of the law; so that it is evident that a
man can die twice, that is, once professionally or legally, and once
naturally.

I presume, like all other scribblers, I must meet my literary death,
that is, when I have written myself down, or have written myself out. I
have no objection, for I am very weary of my literary existence,
although authors are not so in general; on the contrary, they can
perceive in themselves no sign of decay when it is apparent to every
body around them. Literary decay is analogous to the last stage of a
consumption, in which you believe you are not going to die, and plan for
the future as if you were in perfect health. And yet to this complexion
must all authors come at last. There is not a more beautiful, or more
true portrait of human nature, than the scene between the Archbishop of
Grenada and Gil Blas, in the admirable novel of Le Sage. Often and
often has it been brought to my recollection since I have taken up the
pen, and often have I said to myself, "Is this homily as good as the
last?" (perhaps homily is not exactly the right term my writings.) The
great art in this world, not only in writing, but in everything else, is
to know when to leave off. The mind as well as the body must wear out.
At first it is a virgin soil, but we cannot renew its exhausted vigour
after it has borne successive crops. We all know this, and yet we are
all archbishops of Grenada. Even the immortal Walter Scott might have
benefited by the honesty of Gil Blas, and have burnt his latter
homilies; but had he had such an unsophisticated adviser, would he not,
in all probability, have put him out by the shoulders, wishing him, like
the venerable hierarch, "a little more taste and judgment."

Since I have be