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had plunged at the time of the Restoration. His subsequent political career is known to every reader of English history. If ever a man opposed the course of a government in a pure and unselfish spirit, that Iman was Lord William Russell. The suspicious correspondence with Barillon, alluded to in the preceding article, leaves him unsullied, for the ambas

Lady Rachel Russell.

sador distinctly mentions him and Lord Hollis as two who would not accept bribes. When brought to trial (July 1683) under the same circumstances as those which have been related in Sidney's case with a packed jury and a brutal judge-and refused a counsel to conduct his defence, the only grace that was allowed him was to have an amanuensis. His lady stepped forth to undertake this office, to the admiration of all present. After the condemnation of her husband, she personally implored his pardon, without avail. He loved her as such a wife deserved to be loved; and when he took his final farewell of her, remarked, The bitterness of death is now past!' Her ladyship died in 1723, at the age of eighty-seven. Fifty years afterwards, appeared that collection of her letters which gives her a name in our literary history.

[To Dr Fitzwilliam-On her Sorrow.]

WOBORNE ABBEY, 27th Nov. 1685.

As you profess, good doctor, to take pleasure in your writings to me, from the testimony of a conscience to forward my spiritual welfare, so do I to receive them as one to me of your friendship in both worldly and spiritual concernments; doing so, I need not waste my time nor yours to tell you they are very valuable to me. That you are so contented to read mine, I make the just allowance for; not for the worthiness of them, I know it cannot be; but, however, it enables me to keep up an advantageous conversation without scruple of being too troublesome. You say something sometimes, by which I should think you seasoned or rather tainted with being so much where compliment or praising is best learned; but I conclude, that often what one heartily wishes to be in a friend, one is apt to believe is so. The effect is not nought towards me, whom it animates to have a true, not false title to the least virtue you are disposed to attribute to me. Yet I am far from such a vigour of mind as surmounts the secret discontent so hard a destiny as mine has fixed in my breast; but there are times the mind can

hardly feel displeasure, as while such friendly conversation entertained it; then a grateful sense moves one to express the courtesy.

If I could contemplate the conducts of providence with the uses you do, it would give ease indeed, and no disastrous events should much affect us. The new scenes of each day make me often conclude myself very void of temper and reason, that I still shed tears of sorrow and not of joy, that so good a man is landed safe on the happy shore of a blessed eternity; doubtless ho is at rest, though I find none without him, so true a partner he was in all my joys and griefs; I trust the Almighty will pass by this my infirmity; I speak it in respect to the world, from whose enticing delights I can now be better weaned. I was too rich in possessions whilst I possessed him: all relish is now gone, I bless God for it, and pray, and ask of all good people (do it for me from such you know are so) also to pray that I may more and more turn the stream of my affections upwards, and set my heart upon the ever-satisfying perfections of God; not starting at his darkest providences, but remembering continually either his glory, justice, or power is advanced by every one of them, and that mercy is over all his works, as we shall one day with ravishing delight see: in the meantime, I endeavour to suppress all wild imaginations a melancholy fancy is apt to let in; and say with the man in the gospel, I believe, help thou my unbelief.'

[To the Earl of Galway-On Friendship.]

I have before me, my good lord, two of your letters, both partially and tenderly kind, and coming from a sincere heart and honest mind (the last a plain word, but, if I mistake not, very significant), are very comfortable to me, who, I hope, have no proud thoughts of myself as to any sort. The opinion of an esteemed friend, that one is not very wrong, assists to strengthen a weak and willing mind to do her duty towards that Almighty Being who has, from infinite bounty and goodness, so chequered my days on this earth, as I can thankfully reflect I felt many, I may say many years of pure, and, I trust, innocent, pleasant content, and happy enjoyments as this world can afford, particularly that biggest blessing of loving and being loved by those I loved and respected; on earth no enjoyment certainly to be put in the balance with it. All other are like wine, intoxicates for a time, but the end is bitterness, at least not profitable. Mr Waller (whose picture you look upon) has, I long remember, these words:


All we know they do above

Is, that they sing, and that they love.

The best news I have heard is, you have two good companions with you, which, I trust, will contribute to divert you this sharp season, when, after so sore a fit as I apprehend you have felt, the air even of your improving pleasant garden cannot be enjoyed without hazard.

[To Dr Fitzwilliam-Domestic Misfortunes.]

If you have heard of the dismal accident in this neighbourhood, you will easily believe Tuesday night was not a quiet one with us. About one o'clock in the night, I heard a great noise in the square, so little ordinary, I called up a servant, and sent her down to learn the occasion. She brought up a very sad one, that Montague House was on fire; and it was so indeed; it burnt with so great violence, the whole house was consumed by five o'clock. The wind blew strong this way, so that we lay under fire a great part of the time, the sparks and flames continually covering the house, and filling the court. My boy awaked, and said he was almost stifled with smoke, but being told

the reason, would see it, and so was satisfied without fear; took a strange bedfellow very willingly, Lady Devonshire's youngest boy, whom his nurse had brought wrapped in a blanket. Lady Devonshire came towards morning, and lay here; and had done so still, but for a second ill accident. Her brother, Lord Arran, who has been ill of a fever twelve days, was despaired of yesterday morning, and spots appeared; so she resolved to see him, and not to return hither, but to Somerset House, where the queen offered her lodgings. He is said to be dead, and I hear this morning it is a great blow to the family; and that he was a most dutiful son and kind friend to all his family.

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Thus we see what a day brings forth and how momentary the things we set our hearts upon. O, I could heartily cry out, When will longed-for eternity come !' but our duty is to possess our souls with patience. I am unwilling to shake off all hopes about the brief, though I know them that went to the chancellor since the refusal to seal it, and his answer does not encourage one's hopes. But he is not a lover of smooth language, so in that respect we may not so soon despair.

I fancy I saw the young man you mentioned to be about my son. One brought me six prayer-books as from you; also distributed three or four in the house. I sent for him, and asked him if there was no mistake. He said no. And after some other questions, I concluded him the same person. Doctor, I do assure you I put an entire trust in your sincerity to advise; but, as I told you, I shall ever take Lord Bedford along in all the concerns of the child. He thinks it early yet to put him to learn in earnest; so do you, I believe. My lord is afraid, if we take one for it, he will put him to it; yet I think perhaps to overcome my lord in that, and assure him he shall not be pressed. But I am much advised, and indeed inclined, if I could be fitted to my mind, to take a Frenchman; so I shall do a charity, and profit the child also, who shall learn French. Here are many scholars come over, as are of all kinds, God knows.

I have still a charge with me, Lady Devonshire's daughter, who is just come into my chamber; so must break off. I am, sir, truly your faithful servant. The young lady tells me Lord Arran is not dead,

but rather better.

[To Lord Cavendish-Bereavement.] Though I know my letters do Lord Cavendish no service, yet, as a respect I love to pay him, and to thank him also for his last from Limbeck, I had not been so long silent, if the death of two persons, both very near and dear to me, had not made me so uncomfortable to myself, that I knew I was utterly unfit to converse where I would never be ill company. The separation of friends is grievous. My sister Montague was one I loved tenderly; my Lord Gainsborough was the only son of a sister I loved with too much passion: they both deserved to be remembered kindly by all that knew them. They both began their race long after me, and I hoped should have ended it so too; but the great and wise Disposer of all things, and who knows where it is best to place his creatures, either in this or in the other world, has ordered it otherwise. The best improvement we can make in these cases, and you, my dear lord, rather than I, whose glass runs low, while you are young, and I hope have many happy years to come, is, I say, that we should all reflect there is no passing through this to a better world without some crosses; and the scene sometimes shifts so fast, our course of life may be ended before we think we have gone half way; and that a happy eternity depends on our spending well or ill that time allotted us here for probation.

Live virtuously, my lord, and you cannot die too

soon, nor live too long. I hope the last shall be your lot, with many blessings attending it.


SAMUEL BUTLER, whose wit is so conspicuous in his Hudibras,' exhibited it with no less brilliancy in some prose works which were published a considerable time after his death. The most interesting of them are Characters, resembling in style those of Overbury, Earle, and Hall.

A Small Poet

Is one that would fain make himself that which nature never meant him; like a fanatic that inspires himself with his own whimsies. He sets up haber. dasher of small poetry, with a very small stock, and no credit. He believes it is invention enough to find out other men's wit; and whatsoever he lights upon, either in books or company, he makes bold with as his own. This he puts together so untowardly, that you may perceive his own wit has the rickets, by the swelling disproportion of the joints. You may know his wit not to be natural, 'tis so unquiet and troublesome in him: for as those that have money but seldom, are always shaking their pockets when they have it, so does he, when he thinks he has got some thing that will make him appear. He is a perpetual talker; and you may know by the freedom of his discourse that he came lightly by it, as thieves spend freely what they get. He is like an Italian thief, that never robs but he murders, to prevent discovery; so sure is he to cry down the man from whom he pur loins, that his petty larceny of wit may pass unsus pected. He appears so over-concerned in all men's wits, as if they were but disparagements of his own; and cries down all they do, as if they were encroach ments upon him. He takes jests from the owners and breaks them, as justices do false weights, and pets that want measure. When he meets with anything that is very good, he changes it into small money, like three groats for a shilling, to serve several ecra sions. He disclaims study, pretends to take things in motion, and to shoot flying, which appears to be very true, by his often missing of his mark. As for epithets, he always avoids those that are near akin to the sense. Such matches are unlawful, and not fit to be made by a Christian poet; and therefore all his care is to choose out such as will serve, like a wooden leg, to piece out a maimed verse that wants a foot ar two, and if they will but rhyme now and then into the bargain, or run upon a letter, it is a work of supererogation. For similitudes, he likes the hardest and most obscure best; for as ladies wear black patches to make their complexions seem fairer than they are, so when an illustration is more obscure than the sense that went before it, it must of necessity make it appear clearer than it did; for contraries are best set off with contraries. He has found out a new sort of poetical Georgics-a trick of sowing wit like clover-grass on barren subjects, which would yield nothing before. This is very useful for the times, wherein, some men say, there is no room left for new invention. He will take three grains of wit, like the elixir, and, projecting it upon the iron age, turn it immediately into gold. All the business of mankind

*The Genuine Remains, in Prose and Verse, of Mr Samuel Butler, author of Hudibras. Published from the Original

MSS., formerly in the possession of W. Longueville, Esq.; with Notes by R. Thyer, Keeper of the Public Library at Manches ter. London: 1759. We have specified this title fully, be cause there is a spurious compilation, entitled 'Butler's Pas thumous Works. London: 1720. Only three out of fifty pieces, which make up the latter collection, are genuine productions of Butler.

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has presently vanished, the whole world has kept holiday; there has been no men but heroes and poets, no women but nymphs and shepherdesses: trees have borne fritters, and rivers flowed plum-porridge. When he writes, he commonly steers the sense of his lines by the rhyme that is at the end of them, as butchers do calves by the tail. For when he has made one line, which is easy enough, and has found out some sturdy hard word that will but rhyme, he will hammer the sense upon it, like a piece of hot iron upon an anvil, into what form he pleases. There is no art in the world so rich in terms as poetry; a whole dictionary is scarce able to contain them; for there is hardly a pond, a sheep-walk, or a gravel-pit in all Greece, but the ancient name of it is become a term of art in poetry. By this means, small poets have such a stock of able hard words lying by them, as dryades, hamadryades, aönides, fauni, nymphæ, sylvani, &c., that signify nothing at all; and such a world of pedantic terms of the same kind, as may serve to furnish all the new inventions and 'thorough reformations' that can happen between this and Plato's great year.

A Vintner

Hangs out his bush to show he has not good wine; for that, the proverb says, needs it not. He had rather sell bad wine than good, that stands him in no more; for it makes men sooner drunk, and then they are the easier over-reckoned. By the knaveries he acts above-board, which every man sees, one may easily take a measure of those he does under-ground in his cellar; for he that will pick a man's pocket to his face, will not stick to use him worse in private, when he knows nothing of it. He does not only spoil and destroy his wines, but an ancient reverend proverb, with brewing and racking, that says, In vino veritas; for there is no truth in his, but all false and sophisticated; for he can counterfeit wine as cunningly as Apelles did grapes, and cheat men with it, as he did birds. He is an Antichristian cheat, for Christ turned water into wine, and he turns wine into water. He scores all his reckonings upon two tables, made like those of the Ten Commandments, that he may be put in mind to break them as oft as possibly he can; especially that of stealing and bearing false witness against his neighbour, when he draws him bad wine, and swears it is good, and that he can take more for the pipe than the wine will yield him by the bottle-a trick that a Jesuit taught him to cheat his

own conscience with. When he is found to over

reckon notoriously, he has one common evasion for all, and that is, to say it was a mistake; by which he means, that he thought they had not been sober enough to discover it; for if it had passed, there had been no error at all in the case.

A Prater

Is a common nuisance, and as great a grievance to those that come near him, as a pewterer is to his neighbours. His discourse is like the braying of a mortar, the more impertinent, the more voluble and loud, as a pestle makes more noise when it is rung on the sides of a mortar, than when it stamps downright, and hits upon the business. A dog that opens upon a wrong scent will do it oftener than one that never opens but upon a right. He is as long-winded as a ventiduct, that fills as fast as it empties; or a tradewind, that blows one way for half a year together, and another as long, as if it drew in its breath for six months, and blew it out again for six more. He has no mercy on any man's ears or patience that he can get within his sphere of activity, but tortures him, as they correct boys in Scotland, by stretching their lugs without remorse. He is like an ear-wig, when he gets

within a man's ear, he is not easily to be got out again. He is a siren to himself, and has no way to escape shipwreck but by having his mouth stopped instead of his ears. He plays with his tongue as a cat does with her tail, and is transported with the delight he gives himself of his own making.

An Antiquary

Is one that has his being in this age, but his life and conversation is in the days of old. He despises the present age as an innovation, and slights the future; but has a great value for that which is past and gone, like the madman that fell in love with Cleopatra.

All his curiosities take place of one another according to their seniority, and he values them not by their abilities, but their standing. He has a great veneration for words that are stricken in years, and are grown so aged that they have outlived their employments. These he uses with a respect agreeable to their antiquity, and the good services they have done. He is a great time-server, but it is of time out of mind to which he conforms exactly, but is wholly retired from the present. His days were spent and gone long before he came into the world; and since, his only business is to collect what he can out of the ruins of them. He has so strong a natural affection dust and worms, 'you are my father,' and to rottento anything that is old, that he may truly say to ness, thou art my mother.' He has no providence nor foresight, for all his contemplations look backward upon the days of old, and his brains are turned with them, as if he walked backwards. He values things wrongfully upon their antiquity, forgetting that the most modern are really the most ancient of all things in the world, like those that reckon their pounds before their shillings and pence, of which they are made up. He esteems no customs but such as have outlived themselves, and are long since out of use; as the Catholics allow of no saints but such as are dead, and the fanatics, in opposition, of none but the living.

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Another lively describer of human character, who flourished in this period, was DR WALTER CHARLE TON (1619-1707), physician to Charles II., a friend of Hobbes, and for several years president of the College of Physicians in London. He wrote many works on theology, natural history, natural philosophy, medicine, and antiquities; in which last department his most noted production is a treatise published in 1663, maintaining the Danish origin of Stonehenge on Salisbury Plain, in opposition to Inigo Jones, who attributed that remarkable structure to the Romans. The work, however, which seems to deserve more particularly our attention in this place is, A Brief Discourse concerning the Different Wits of Men, published by Dr Charleton in 1675. It is interesting, both on account of the lively and accurate sketches of character which it contains, and because the author, like a sect whose opinions have lately attracted much notice, attributes the varieties of talent which are found among men to differences in the form, size, and quality of their brains.* We shall give two of his happiest sketches.

The Ready and Nimble Wit.

Such as are endowed wherewith have a certain extemporary acuteness of conceit, accompanied with a quick delivery of their thoughts, so as they can at

*See Phrenological Journal, vii. 597.

whereby they might be redeemed from obscurity, and raised to employments answerable to their faculties, and crowned with honours proportionate to their merits. The best course, therefore, for these to overcome that eclipse which prejudice usually brings upon them, is to contend against their own modesty, and either, by frequent converse with noble and discerning spirits, to enlarge the windows of their minds, and dispel those clouds of reservedness that darken the lustre of their faculties; or by writing on some new and useful subject, to lay open their talent, so that the world may be convinced of their intrinsic value.

of the chapters, as a specimen of the style in which the ancient classics were faithfully Englished' in the middle of the seventeenth century.

pleasure entertain their auditors with facetious passages and fluent discourses even upon slight occasions; but being generally impatient of second thoughts and deliberations, they seem fitter for pleasant colloquies and drollery than for counsel and design; like flyboats, good only in fair weather and shallow waters, and then, too, more for pleasure than traffic. If they be, as for the most part they are, narrow in the hold, and destitute of ballast sufficient to counterpoise their large sails, they reel with every blast of argument, and are often driven upon the sands of a 'nonplus; but where favoured with the breath of common applause, they sail smoothly and proudly, and, like the city pageants, discharge whole volleys of squibs and crackers, and skirmish most furiously. But take In 1670 Dr Charleton published a vigorous transthem from their familiar and private conversation lation of Epicurus's 'Morals,' prefaced by an earnest into grave and severe assemblies, whence all extem-vindication of that philosopher. We extract one porary flashes of wit, all fantastic allusions, all personal reflections, are excluded, and there engage them in an encounter with solid wisdom, not in light skirmishes, but a pitched field of long and serious debate concerning any important question, and then you shall soon discover their weakness, and contemn that barrenness of understanding which is incapable of struggling with the difficulties of apodictical knowledge, and the deduction of truth from a long series of reasons. Again, if those very concise sayings and lucky repartees, wherein they are so happy, and which at first hearing were entertained with so much of pleasure and admiration, be written down, and brought to a strict examination of their pertinency, coherence, and verity, how shallow, how frothy, how forced will they be found how much will they lose of that applause, which their tickling of the ear and present flight through the imagination had gained! In the greatest part, therefore, of such men, you ought to expect no deep or continued river of wit, but only a few plashes, and those, too, not altogether free from mud and putrefaction.

The Slow but Sure Wit.

Some heads there are of a certain close and reserved constitution, which makes them at first sight to promise as little of the virtue wherewith they are endowed, as the former appear to be above the imperfections to which they are subject. Somewhat slow they are, indeed, of both conception and expression; yet no whit the less provided with solid prudence. When they are engaged to speak, their tongue doth not readily interpret the dictates of their mind, so that their language comes, as it were, dropping from their lips, even where they are encouraged by familiar intreaties, or provoked by the smartness of jests, which sudden and nimble wits have newly darted at them. Costive they are also in invention; so that when they would deliver somewhat solid and remarkable, they are long in seeking what is fit, and as long in determining in what manner and words to utter it. But, after a little consideration, they penetrate deeply into the substance of things and marrow of business, and conceive proper and emphatic words by which to express their sentiments. Barren they are not, but a little heavy and retentive. Their gifts lie deep and concealed; but being furnished with notions, not airy and umbratil ones borrowed from the pedantism of the schools, but true and useful-and if they have been manured with good learning, and the habit of exercising their pen-oftentimes they produce many excellent conceptions, worthy to be transmitted to posterity. Having, however, an aspect very like to narrow and dull capacities, at first sight most men take them to be really such, and strangers look upon them with the eyes of neglect and contempt. Hence it comes, that excellent parts remaining unknown, often want the favour and patronage of great persons,

Of Modesty, opposed to Ambition. Concerning this great virtue, which is the fourth branch of temperance, there is very little need of say ing more than what we have formerly intimated, when we declared it not to be the part of a wise man to affect greatness, or power, or honours in a commonwealth; but so to contain himself, as rather to live not only privately, but even obscurely and concealed in some secure corner. And therefore the advice we shall chiefly inculcate in this place shall be the very same we usually give to our best friends. Live private and concealed (unless some circumstance of state call you forth to the assistance of the public), insomuch as experience frequently confirms the truth of that proverbial saying,He hath well lived who hath well concealed himself.'

Certainly, it hath been too familiarly observed, that many, who had mounted up to the highest pinnacle of honour, have been on a sudden, and, as it were, with a thunderbolt, thrown down to the bottom of misery and contempt; and so been brought, though too late, to acknowledge, that it is much better for a man quietly and peaceably to obey, than, by laborious climbing up the craggy rocks of ambition, to aspire to command and sovereignty; and to set his foot rather upon the plain and humble ground, than up that slippery height, from which all that can be with reason expected, is a precipitous and ruinous downfall. Besides, are not those grandees, upon whom the admiring multitude gaze, as upon refulgent comets, and prodigies of glory and honour; are they not, we say, of all men the most unhappy, in this one respect, that their breasts swarm with most weighty and trouble some cares, that incessantly gall and corrode their very hearts? Beware, therefore, how you believe that such live securely and tranquilly; since it is impos sible but those who are feared by many should themselves be in continual fear of some.

Though you see them to be in a manner environed with power, to have navies numerous enough to send abroad into all seas, to be in the heads of mighty and victorious armies, to be guarded with well armed and faithful legions; yet, for all this, take heed you do not conceive them to be the only happy men, nay, that they partake so much as of one sincere pleasure; for all these things are mere pageantry, shadows gilded, and ridiculous dreams, insomuch as fear and care are not things that are afraid of the noise of arms, or re gard the brightness of gold, or the splendour of purple, but boldly intrude themselves even into the hearts of princes and potentates, and, like the poet's vulture, daily gnaw and consume them.

Beware, likewise, that you do not conceive that the body is made one whit the more strong, or healthy, by the glory, greatness, and treasures of monarchy, espe





cially when you may daily observe, that a fever doth
as violently and long hold him who lies upon a bed
of tissue, under a covering of Tyrian scarlet, as him
that lies upon a mattress, and hath no covering but
rags; and that we have no reason to complain of the
want of scarlet robes, of golden embroideries, jewels,
and ropes of pearl, while we have a coarse and easy
And what if you,
garment to keep away the cold.
lying cheerfully and serenely upon a truss of clean
straw, covered with rags, should gravely instruct men
how vain those are who, with astonished and turbu-
lent minds, gape and thirst after the trifles of magni-
ficence, not understanding how few and small those
things are which are requisite to a happy life? believe
me, your discourse would be truly magnificent and
high, because delivered by one whose own happy ex-
perience confirms it.

What though your house do not shine with silver
and gold hatchments; nor your arched roofs resound
with the multiplied echoes of loud music; nor your
walls be not thickly beset with golden figures of beau-
tiful youths, holding great lamps in their extended
arms, to give light to your nightly revels and sump-
tuous banquets; why yet, truly, it is not a whit less
(if not much more) pleasant to repose your wearied
limbs upon the green grass, to sit by some cleanly and
purling stream, under the refreshing shade of some
well-branched tree, especially in the spring time, when
the head of every plant is crowned with beautiful and
fragrant flowers, the merry birds entertaining you with
the music of their wild notes, the fresh western winds
continually fanning your heats, and all nature smil-
ing upon you.

Wherefore, when any man may, if he please, thus
live at peace and liberty abroad in the open fields, or
his own gardens, what reason is there why he should
affect and pursue honours, and not rather modestly
bound his desires with the calmness and security of
that condition? For, to hunt after glory by the os-
tentation of virtue, of science, of eloquence, of nobi-
lity, of wealth, of attendants, of rich cloths, of beauty,
of garb, and the like, seriously, it is altogether the
fame of ridiculous vanity; and in all things modesty
exacts no more than this, that we do not, through
rusticity, want of a decent garb, or too much negli-
gence, do anything that doth not correspond with
civility and decorum. For it is equally vile, and
doth as much denote a base or abject mind, to grow
insolent and lofty upon the possession of these ad-
juncts of magnificence, as to become dejected, or sink
in spirit, at the loss or want of them.

Now, according to this rule, if a wise man chance
to have the statues or images of his ancestors, or
other renowned persons of former ages, he will be very
far from being proud of them, from showing them as
badges of honour, from affecting a glory from the
generosity of their actions and achievements; and as
far from wholly neglecting them, but will place them
(as memorials of virtue) indifferently either in his
porch or gallery, or elsewhere.

Nor will he be solicitous about the manner or place
of his sepulture, or command his executors to bestow
any great cost, or pomp and ceremony, at his funeral.
The chief subject of his care will be, what may be
beneficial and pleasant to his successors; being well
assured that, as for his dead corpse, it will little con-
cern him what becomes of it. For to propagate vanity
even beyond death is the highest madness; and not
much inferior thereto is the fancy of some, who in
their lives are afraid to have their carcasses torn by
the teeth of wild beasts after their death. For if
that be an evil, why is it not likewise an evil to have
the dead corpse burned, embalmed, and immersed in
honey, to grow cold and stiff under a ponderous
marble, to be pressed down by the weight of earth
and passengers ?


A conspicuous place in the prose literature of this age is due to DR THOMAS FULLER (1608-1661), author of various works in practical divinity and history. Fuller was the son of a clergyman of the same name settled at Aldwinkle, in Northampton: he and Dryden thus were natives of the same place. A quick intellect, and uncommon powers of memory, made


Thomas Fuller.

him a scholar almost in his boyhood; his studies
at Queen's college, Cambridge, were attended with
the highest triumphs of the university, and on
entering life as a preacher in that city, he acquired
the greatest popularity. He afterwards passed
through a rapid succession of promotions, until he
acquired the lectureship of the Savoy in London.
Meanwhile, he published his History of the Holy War.
On the breaking out of the civil war, Fuller attached
himself to the king's party at Oxford, and he seems
these circumstances, his active mind busied itself
to have accompanied the army in active service for
some years as chaplain to Lord Hopton. Even in
in collecting materials for some of the works which
same time much courted, on account of the extraordi-
he subsequently published. His company was at the
nary amount of intelligence which he had acquired,
been quite irrepressible. The quaint and familiar
and a strain of lively humour which seems to have
nature of his mind disposed him to be less nice in
the selection of materials, and also in their arrange-
ment, than scholarly men generally are. He would
traditionary anecdote, and proverbial wisdom. And
sit patiently for hours listening to the prattle of old
women, in order to obtain snatches of local history,
these he has wrought up in his work entitled The
Worthies of England, which is a strange melange
of topography, biography, and popular antiquities.
When the heat of the war was past, Fuller returned
to London, and became lecturer at St Bride's church.
He was now engaged in his Church History of Britain,
which was given to the world in 1656, in one volume
folio. Afterwards, he devoted himself to the prepa-
ration of his Worthies,' which he did not complete
till 1660. Meanwhile, he had passed through some
other situations in the church, the last of which was
that of chaplain to Charles II. It was thought that
he would have been made a bishop, if he had not been
handsome person, and great conversational powers.
prematurely cut off by fever, a year after the Resto-
ration. This extraordinary man possessed a tall and

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