ABSTRACT
There are two Sorts of Persons, who, may, in some Sense, be said to feed on the Breath which goeth out of the Mouth of Man; namely, the Soldier and the Author. But here I would not be understood to mean, by Soldier, such wise Military Men, who justly despising this thin Diet, are content to receive from five hundred to two thousand Pounds a Year, for appearing now and then in a red Coat with a Sash, in the Parks and Market-Places of this Kingdom, and who never saw an Enemy, unless the old Officers and Soldiers of their own Regiments, who disdain to have such Commanders at their Head; nor, by Authors, would I be supposed to cast any Reflection on such as have found a Method by Panegyric, to cram themselves with more substantial Food. The Kind of Persons here hinted at, may be seen in St. James’s Park in a foggy Morning in shabby red and black Coats, with open Mouths eagerly devouring the Fog for Breakfast. Such Soldiers as an Acquaintance of mine, who, after he had served many Campaigns in Flanders, and been wounded in Spain, with a generous Heart and an empty Pocket died in the King’s-Bench; and such Authors as Butler, who, after he had published his inimitable Hudibrass, was starved to Death in a Garret.2
