It is a letter written to a physician with great care, but possibly never sent.He begins with stating that he "had always a strong inclination to books and letters," and that, after fifteen years, he had been left to his own choice in reading: " I found it to incline almost equally to books of reasoning and philosophy, and to poetry and the polite authors.Every one who is acquainted either with the philosophers or critics, knows that there is nothing yet established in either of these sciences, and that they contain little more than endless disputes, even in the most fundamental articles.Upon examination of these, I found a certain boldness of temper growing in me, which was not inclined to submit to any authority on these subjects, but led me to seek out some new medium by which truth might be established.After much study and reflection on this, at last, when I was about eighteen years of age, there seemed to be opened up to me a new source of thought, which transported me beyond measure, and made me, with an ardor natural to young men, throw up every other pleasure or {116}
business to apply actively to it.The law, which was the business I designed to follow, appeared nauseous to me; and I could think of no other way of pushing my fortune in the world but that of scholar and philosopher.I was infinitely happy in this course of life for some months, till at last, about the be ginning of September, 1729, all my ardor seemed in a moment to be extinguished, and I could no longer raise my mind to that pitch which formerly gave me such excessive pleasure.I felt no uneasiness or want of spirits when Ilaid aside my book; and therefore never imagined there was any bodily distemper in the case, but that my coldness proceeded from a laziness of temper which must be overcome by redoubling my application.In this condition I remained for nine months, very uneasy to myself, but without growing any worse, which was a miracle.There was another particular which contributed more than any thing to waste my spirits, and bring on me this distemper, which was, that, having read many books of morality,-- such as Cicero, Seneca, and Plutarch, - and being smit with their beautiful representations of virtue and philosophy, I undertook the improvement of my temper and will, along with my reason and understanding.I was continually fortifying myself with reflections against death and poverty and shame and pain, and all the other calamities of life.These no doubt are exceeding useful when joined with an active life, because the occasion being presented, along with the reflection, works it into the soul, and makes it take a deep impression;but in solitude they serve to little other purpose than to waste the spirits, the force of the mind meeting with no resistance, but wasting itself in the air, like our arm when it misses the aim.This, however, I did not learn but by experience, and till I had already ruined my health, though I was not sensible of it." He then describes the symptoms:
