* *

find it much in books. That they find in books, that which the poets chant in the theatres, and the shepherds on the mountains, that which the pastors teach in the churches, and the doctors in the universities, and that which the common people in the markets and all mankind in the whole world do assent unto, is the same that I assent unto; namely, that a man hath freedom to do if he will; but whether he hath freedom to will, is a question which it seems neither the bishop nor they ever thought on. A wooden top that is lashed by the boys, and runs about, sometimes to one wall, sometimes to another, sometimes spinning, sometimes hitting men on the shins, if it were sensible of its own motion, would think it proceeded from its own will, unless it felt what lashed it. And is a man any wiser when he runs to one place for a benefice, to another for a bargain, and troubles the world with writing errors, and requiring answers, because he thinks he does it without other cause than his own will, and seeth not what are the lashings that cause that will?

本

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[Concerning the justice of punishing criminals on the supposition of necessity of the will, he remarks]-The intention of the law is not to grieve the delinquent for that which is past, and not to be undone, but to make him and others just, that else would not be so; and respecteth not the evil act past, but the good to come; insomuch as, without the good intention for the future, no past act of a delinquent could justify his killing in the sight of God. But you will say, How is it just to kill one man to amend another, if what were done were necessary? To this I answer, that men are justly killed, not for that their actions are not necessitated, but because they are noxious; and that they are spared and preserved whose actions are not noxious. For where there is no law, there no killing, nor anything else, can be unjust; and by the right of nature we destroy-without being unjust-all that is noxious, both beasts and men. When we make societies or commonwealths, we lay down our right to kill, excepting in certain cases, as murder, theft, or other offensive action; so that the right which the commonwealth hath to put a man to death for crimes, is not created by the law, but remains from the first right of nature which every man hath to preserve himself; for that the law doth not take that right away in the case of criminals, who were by law excepted. Men are not, therefore, put to death, or punished, for that their theft proceedeth from election; but because it was noxious, and contrary to men's preservation, and the punishment conducing to the preservation of the rest; inasmuch as, to punish those that do voluntary hurt, and none else, frameth and maketh men's wills such as men would have them. And thus it is plain, that from the necessity of a voluntary action cannot be inferred the injustice of the law that forbiddeth it, or of the magistrate that punisheth it.

[As to praise or dispraise]-These depend not at all on the necessity of the action praised or dispraised. For what is it else to praise, but to say a thing is good? Good, I say, for me, or for somebody else, or for the state and commonwealth. And what is it to say an action is good, but to say it is as I would wish, or as another would have it, or according to the will of the state; that is to say, according to the law? Does my lord think that no action can please me, or him, or the commonwealth, that should proceed from necessity? Things may be therefore necessary, and yet praiseworthy, as also necessary, and yet dispraised, and neither of them both in vain; because praise and dispraise, and likewise reward and punishment, do, by example, make and conform the will to good or evil. It was a very great praise, in my opinion, that Velleius Paterculus gives Cato, where he says, that he was good by nature, et quia aliter esse non potuit'-['and because he could not be otherwise.']

The style of Hobbes is characterised by Sir James Mackintosh as 'the very perfection of didactic language. Short, clear, precise, pithy, his language never has more than one meaning, which never requires a second thought to find. By the help of his exact method, it takes so firm a hold on the mind, that it will not allow attention to slacken. His little tract on Human Nature has scarcely an ambiguous or a needless word. He has so great a power of always choosing the most significant term, that he never is reduced to the poor expedient of using many in its stead. He had so thoroughly studied the genius of the language, and knew so well to steer between pedantry and vulgarity, that two centuries have not superannuated probably more than a dozen of his words."'* Mr Macaulay also characterises the language of Hobbes as 'more precise and luminous than has ever been employed by any other metaphysical writer.' Among his greatest philosophical errors are those of making no distinction between the intellectual and emotive faculties of man-of representing all human actions as the results of intellectual deliberation aloneand of in every case deriving just and benevolent actions from a cool survey of the advantages to self short, he has given to neither the moral nor the social which may be expected to flow from them. sentiments a place in his scheme of human nature. The opponents of this selfish system have been numberless; nor is the controversy terminated even at the present day. The most eminent of those who have ranged themselves against Hobbes are Cumberland, Cudworth, Shaftesbury, Clarke, Butler, Hutcheson, Kames, Smith, Stewart, and Brown.

LORD HERBERT.

In

have mentioned as intimate with Hobbes, is LORD Among the distinguished persons whom we HERBERT OF CHERBURY (1581-1648), a brave and high-spirited man, at a time when honourable feeling was rare at the English court. Like the philosopher of Malmesbury, he distinguished himself as a free-thinker; and, says Dr Leland, 'as he was one of the first, so he was confessedly one of the greatest writers that have appeared among us in the deistical cause.' He was born at Eyton, in Shropshire, studied at Oxford, and acquired, both at home and on the continent, a high reputation for the almost Quixotic chivalry of his character. In 1616 he was sent as ambassador to Paris, at which place he published, in 1624, his celebrated deistical book, De Veritate, prout distinguitur à Revelatione Verisimili, Possibili, et à Falso-['Of Truth, as it is distinguished from Probable, Possible, and False Revelation']. In this work, the first in which deism was ever reduced to a system, the author maintains the sufficiency, universality, and absolute perfection of natural religion, and the consequent uselessness of supernatural revelation. This universal religion he reduces to the following articles: 1. That there is one supreme God. 2. That he is chiefly to be worshipped. 3. That piety and virtue are the principal part of his worship. 4. That we must repent of our sins, and if we do so, God will pardon them. 5. That good men are rewarded, and bad men punished, in a future state; or, as he sometimes expresses it, both here and hereafter. In reprinting the work at London in 1645, he added two tracts, De Causis Errorum ['Of the Causes of Error'] and De Religione Laici [Of the Religion of a Layman'];

*Second Preliminary Dissertation to Encyclopædia Bri tannica.

+ Leland's View of the Deistical Writers, Letter IL

and soon afterwards he published another book, entitled De Religione_Gentilium, Errorumque apud eos Causis, of which an English translation appeared in 1705, entitled The Ancient Religion of the Gentiles, and Cause of their Errors, Considered. The treatise De Veritate was answered by the French philosopher Gassendi, and numerous replies have appeared in England. Lord Herbert wrote a History of the Life and Reign of King Henry VIII., which was not printed till 1649, the year after his death. It is termed by Lord Orford 'a master-piece of historic biography;' and in Bishop Nicolson's opinion, 'the author has acquitted himself with the like reputation as Lord Chancellor Bacon gained by the Life of Henry VII., having, in the polite and martial part, been admirably exact, from the best records that remain.' He has been accused, however, of partiality to the tyrannical monarch whose actions he relates, and of having produced rather a panegyric, or an apology, than a fair and judicious representation. As to style, the work is considered one of the best old specimens of historical composition in the language, being manly and vigorous, and unsullied by the quaintness and pedantry of the age. Lord Herbert is remarkable also as the earliest of our autobiographers. The memoirs which he left of his own life were first printed in 1764, and have ever since been popular. In the following extract, there is evidence of the singular fact, that though he conceived revelation unnecessary in a religious point of view, he seriously looked for a communication of the Divine will as to the publication or suppression of his principal work:

My book, De Veritate, prout distinguitur à Revelatione Verisimili, Possibili, et à Falso, having been begun by me in England, and formed there in all its principal parts, was about this time finished; all the spare hours which I could get from my visits and negotiations being employed to perfect this work, which was no sooner done, but that I communicated it to Hugo Grotius, that great scholar, who, having escaped his prison in the Low Countries, came into France, and was much welcomed by me and Monsieur Tieleners also, one of the greatest scholars of his time, who, after they had perused it, and given it more commendations than it is fit for me to repeat, exhorted me earnestly to print and publish it; howbeit, as the frame of my whole book was so different from anything which had been written heretofore, I found I must either renounce the authority of all that had written formerly concerning the method of finding out truth, and consequently insist upon my own way, or hazard myself to a general censure, concerning the whole argument of my book; I must confess it did not a little animate me, that the two great persons above mentioned did so highly value it, yet, as I knew it would meet with much opposition, I did consider whether it was not better for me a while to suppress it. Being thus doubtful in my chamber, one fair day in the summer, my casement being open towards the south, the sun shining clear, and no wind stirring, I took my book De Veritate in my hand, and kneeling on my knees, devoutly said these words:

'O thou eternal God, author of the light which now shines upon me, and giver of all inward illuminations, I do beseech thee, of thy infinite goodness, to pardon a greater request than a sinner ought to make; I am not satisfied enough whether I shall publish this book De Veritate; if it be for thy glory, I beseech thee give me some sign from heaven; if not, I shall suppress it.'

I had no sooner spoken these words, but a loud though yet gentle noise came from the heavens-for it was like nothing on the earth-which did so comfort and cheer me, that I took my petition as granted, and that I had the sign I demanded, whereupon also I resolved to print my book.

This, how strange soever it may seem, I protest before the eternal God is true, neither am I any way superstitiously deceived herein, since I did not only clearly hear the noise, but in the serenest sky that ever I saw, being without all cloud, did to my thinking see the place from whence it came.

As a sample of his Life of Henry VIII., take his account of

[Sir Thomas More's Resignation of the Great Seal.]

Sir Thomas More, Lord Chancellor of England, after divers suits to be discharged of his place-which he had held two years and a half-did at length by the king's good leave resign it. The example whereof being rare, will give me occasion to speak more particularly of him. Sir Thomas More, a person of sharp wit, and endued besides with excellent parts of learning (as his works may testify) was yet (out of I know not what natural facetiousness) given so much to jesting, that it detracted no little from the gravity and importance of his place, which, though generally noted and disliked, I do not think was enough to make him give it over in that Neither can I believe him so much addicted to his merriment we shall find anon, or retire to a private life. private opinions as to detest all other governments but his own Utopia, so that it is probable some vehement desire to follow his book, or secret offence taken against some person or matter-among which perchance the king's new intended marriage, or the like, might be accounted-occasioned this strange counsel; though, yet, I find no reason pretended for it but infirmity and want of health. Our king hereupon taking the seal, and giving it, together with the order of knighthood, to Thomas Audeley, Speaker of the Lower House, Sir Thomas More, without acquainting anybody with what he had done, repairs to his family at Chelsea, where, after a mass celebrated the next day in the church, he comes to his lady's pew, with his hat in his hand-an office formerly done by one of his gentlemen-and says: Madam, my lord is gone.' But she thinking this at first to be but one of his jests, was little moved, till he told her sadly, he had given up the great seal; whereupon she speaking some passionate words, he called his daughters then present to see if they could not spy some fault about their mother's dressing; but they after search saying they could find none, he replied: 'Do you not perceive that your mother's nose standeth somewhat awry?'-of which jeer the provoked lady was so sensible, that she went from him in a rage. Shortly after, he acquainted his servants with what he had done, dismissing them also to the attendance of some other great personages, to whom he had recommended them. For his fool, he bestowed him on the lord-mayor during his office, and afterwards on his successors in that charge. And now coming to himself, he began to consider how much he had left, and finding that it was not above one hundred pounds yearly in lands, besides some money, he advised with his daughters how to live together. But the grieved gentlewomen-who knew not what to reply, or indeed how to take these jests-remaining astonished, he says: 'We will begin with the slender diet of the students of the law, and if that will not hold out, we will take such commons as they have at Oxford; which yet if our purse will not stretch to maintain, for our last refuge we will go abegging, and at every man's door sing together a Salve Regina to get alms.' But these jests were thought to have in them more levity than to be taken everywhere for current; he might have quitted his dignity without using such sarcasms, and betaken himself to a more retired and quiet life without making them or himself contemptible. And certainly whatsoever he intended hereby, his family so little understood his meaning, that they needed some more serious instructions. So that I cannot persuade myself for all this talk, that so excellent a person would omit at fit times

that is next about them, by contracting it strait together, that the beams of any other man's eyes cannot pierce through the same, to see them? But the third way of their coming to their conventions is that wherein I think them deluded: for some of them saith that, being transformed in the likeness of a little beast or fowl, they will come and pierce through whatsoever house or church, though all ordinary passages be closed, by whatsoever open the air may enter in at. And some saith, that their bodies lying still, as in an ecstasy, their spirits will be ravished out of their bodies, and carried to such places; and for verifying thereof will give evident tokens, as well by witnesses that have seen their body lying senseless in the meantime, as by naming persons whomwith they met, and giving tokens what purpose was amongst them, whom otherwise they could not have known; for this form of journeying they affirm to use most when they are transported from one country to

another.

ROBERT BURTON.

One of the most ingenious and learned prose writers of this age was ROBERT BURTON, born, as he himself tells us, at Lindley, in Leicestershire, the possession and dwelling-place of his father, on the 8th of February 1578. He studied at Christchurch, Oxford, and entering into holy orders, became rector of Segrave, in Leicestershire. He appears to have resided in his college at Oxford, and there he wrote his great work, The Anatomy of Melancholy, by Democritus Junior, which was published in 1621. 'I have been brought up,' he says, 'a student in the most flourishing college of Europe; for thirty years. I have continued a scholar, and would be therefore loath, either by living as a drone to be an unprofitable or unworthy member of so learned a society, or to write that which should be any way dishonourable to such a royal and ample foundation.' And in the same gossiping style he states, garnishing every line with a Latin quotation, that 'out of a running wit, an unconstant, unsettled mind,' he had a great desire to have some smattering of all knowledge, tumbling over divers authors in the Oxford libraries, but specially delighted with the study of cosmography. He adds, in a contented scholar-like spirit: 'I have little-I want nothing; all my treasure is in Minerva's tower. Greater preferment as I could never get, so am I not in debt for it; I have a competency (Laus Deo!) from my noble and munificent patrons, though I live still a collegiate student, as Democritus in his garden, and lead a monastic life, sequestered from those tumults and troubles of the world in some high place above them all; I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for. A mere spectator of other men's fortunes and adventures, and how they act their parts, which, methinks, are diversely presented unto me as from a common theatre or scene.' He admits, however, that as Diogenes went into the city, and Democritus to the haven, to see fashions, he did now and then, for his recreation, walk abroad, look into the world, and make some little observation-not to scoff or laugh, but with a mixed passion.

a

Burton was a man of great benevolence, integrity, and learning, but of a whimsical and melancholy disposition. Though at certain times he was facetious companion, at others his spirits were very low; and when in this condition, he used to go down to the river near Oxford, and dispel the gloom by listening to the coarse jests and ribaldry of the bargemen, which excited his violent laughter. alleviate his mental distress, he wrote his Anatomy of Melancholy, which presents in quaint language, and with many shrewd and amusing remarks, a view of all the modifications of that disease, and the

To

manner of curing it. The erudition displayed in this work is extraordinary, every page abounding with quotations from Latin or Greek authors. It was so successful at first, that the publisher realised a fortune by it; and Warton says, that 'the author's variety of learning, his quotations from scarce and curious books, his pedantry, sparkling with rude wit and shapeless elegance, miscellaneous matter, intermixture of agreeable tales and illustrations, and, perhaps above all, the singularities of his feelings, clothed in an uncommon quaintness of style, have contributed to render it, even to modern readers, a valuable repository of amusement and information.' It delighted Dr Johnson so much, that he said this was the only book that ever took him out of bed two hours sooner than he wished to rise.' reputation was considerably extended by the publication of Illustrations of Sterne, in 1798, by the late Dr Ferriar of Manchester, who convicted the novelist of copying passages, verbatim, from Burton, without acknowledgment. Many others have, with like silence, extracted materials from his pages.

Its

Prefixed to the Anatomy of Melancholy is a poem of twelve stanzas, from which Milton has borrowed some of the imagery of his Il Penseroso. The first six stanzas are as follows:

[The Author's Abstract of Melancholy.]

When I go musing all alone,
Thinking of divers things foreknown,
When I build castles in the air,
Void of sorrow, void of fear,
Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet,
Methinks the time runs very fleet.

All my joys to this are folly;
Nought so sweet as melancholy.
When I go walking all alone,
Recounting what I have ill-done,
My thoughts on me then tyrannise,
Fear and sorrow me surprise;
Whether I tarry still, or go,
Methinks the time moves very slow.
All my griefs to this are jolly;
Nought so sad as melancholy.

When to myself I act and smile,
With pleasing thoughts the time beguile,
By a brook-side or wood so green,
Unheard, unsought for, or unseen,
A thousand pleasures do me bless,
And crown my soul with happiness.
All my joys besides are folly;
None so sweet as melancholy.
When I lie, sit, or walk alone,
I sigh, I grieve, making great moan;
In a dark grove or irksome den,
With discontents and furies then,
A thousand miseries at once
Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce.
All my griefs to this are jolly;
None so sour as melancholy.

Methinks I hear, methinks I see
Sweet music, wondrous melody,
Towns, palaces, and cities, fine;

Here now, then there, the world is mine,
Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine,
Whate'er is lovely is divine.

All other joys to this are folly;
None so sweet as melancholy.
Methinks I hear, methinks I see
Ghost, goblins, fiends: my phantasie
Presents a thousand ugly shapes;
Headless bears, black men, and apes;