for him? to take him forcibly out of the hands of those for whom he had conquered him; to draw him into his net with protestations and vows of fidelity, and when he had caught him in it, to butcher him with as little shame as conscience or humanity, in the open face of the whole world? to receive a commission for king and parliament, to murder (as I said) the one, and to destroy no less impudently the other? to fight against monarchy when he declared for it, and to declare against it when he contrived for it in his own person? to abuse perfidiously and supplant ingratefully his own general first, and afterwards most of those officers who, with the loss of their honour and hazard of their souls, had lifted him up to the top of his unreasonable ambitions? to break his faith with all enemies and with all friends equally? and to make no less frequent use of the most solemn perjuries than the looser sort of people do of customary oaths? to usurp three kingdoms without any shadow of the least pretensions, and to govern them as unjustly as he got them? to set himself up as an idol (which we know, as St Paul says, in itself is nothing), and make the very streets of London like the valley of Hinnon by burning the bowels of men as a sacrifice to his Moloch-ship? to seek to entail this usurpation upon his posterity, and with it an endless war upon the nation? and lastly, by the severest judgment of Almighty God, to die hardened, and mad, and unrepentant, with the curses of the present age and the detestation of all to succeed.1 2. OF SOLITUDE.-(SECOND ESSAY.) "Never less alone than when alone" is now become a very vulgar saying. Every man, and almost every boy, for these seventeen hundred years, has had it in his mouth. But it was at first spoken by the excellent Scipio, who was without question a most eloquent and witty person, as well as the most wise, most worthy, most happy, and the greatest of all mankind. His meaning, no doubt, was this, that he found more satisfaction to his mind, and more improvement of it, by solitude than by company; and, to show that he spoke not this loosely or out of vanity, after he had made Rome mistress of almost the whole world, he retired himself from it by a voluntary exile, and at a private house, in the middle of a wood near Linternum, passed the remainder of his glorious life no less gloriously. This house Seneca went to see so long after with so great veneration; and, among other things, describes his baths to have been of so mean a structure, that now, says he, the basest of the people would despise them, and cry out, "Poor Scipio understood not how to live." What an authority is here for the credit of 1 Cowley, it has been already mentioned, was a royalist, and his opinions on Cromwell's character and government would, of course, be materially influenced by his own convictions, and must therefore be taken for what they are worth; this, however, does not render it the less dishonest to quote, as has been sometimes done of late, the first part of the above extract as Cowley's own belief, when it is in fact the very opposite. retreat! and happy had it been for Hannibal, if adversity could have taught him as much wisdom as was learnt by Scipio from the highest prosperities. This would be no wonder, if it were as truly as it is colourably' and wittily said by Monsieur Montaigne, "That ambition itself might teach us to love solitude; there is nothing does so much hate to have companions." It is true, it loves to have its elbows free, it detests to have company on either side; but it delights above all things in a train behind, aye, and ushers, too, before it. But the greatest part of men are so far from the opinion of that noble Roman, that, if they chance at any time to be without company, they are like a becalmed ship; they never move but by the wind of other men's breath, and have no oars of their own to steer withal. It is very fantastical and contradictory in human nature, that men should love themselves above all the rest of the world, and yet never endure to be with themselves. When they are in love with a mistress, all other persons are importunate and burthensome to them: they would live and die with her alone. "With thee for ever I in woods could rest, Where never human foot the ground has press'd; And yet our dear self is so wearisome to us, that we can scarcely support its conversation for an hour together. This is such an odd temper of mind, as Catullus expresses towards one of his mistresses, whom we may suppose to have been of a very unsociable humour. "I hate, and yet I love thee too; How can that be? I know not how ; Only that so it is I know, And feel with torment that 'tis so." It is a deplorable condition this, and drives a man sometimes to pitiful shifts, in seeking how to avoid himself. The truth of the matter is, that neither he who is a fop in the world is a fit man to be alone, nor he who has set his heart much upon the world, though he have never so much understanding; so that solitude can be well fitted, and sit right, but upon a very few persons. They must have enough knowledge of the world to see the vanity of it, and enough virtue to despise all vanity; if the mind be possessed with any lust or passions, a man had better be in a fair than in a wood alone. They may, like petty thieves, cheat us perhaps, and pick our pockets, in the midst of company; but, like robbers, they use to strip, and bind, or murder us, when they catch us alone. This is but to retreat from men, and fall into the hands of devils. It is like the punishment of parricides among the Romans, to be sewed into a bag with an ape, a dog, and a serpent. 1 i.e., in modern language, plausibly. The first work, therefore, that a man must do, to make himself capable of the good of solitude, is the very eradication of all lusts; for, how is it possible for a man to enjoy himself while his affections are tied to things without himself? In the second place, he must learn the art and get the habit of thinking; for this, too, no less than well-speaking, depends upon much practice; and cogitation is the thing which distinguishes the solitude of a God from a wild beast. Now, because the soul of man is not by its own nature or observation furnished with sufficient materials to work upon, it is necessary for it to have continual recourse to learning and books for fresh supplies, so that the solitary life will grow indigent, and be ready to starve, without them; but if once we be thoroughly engaged in the love of letters, instead of being wearied with the length of any day, we shall only complain of the shortness of our whole life. "O life, long to the fool, short to the wise!" The first minister of state has not so much business in public, as a wise man has in private: if the one have little leisure to be alone, the other has less leisure to be in company; the one has but part of the affairs of one nation, the other all the works of God and nature under his consideration. There is no saying shocks me so much as that which I hear very often, "that a man does not know how to pass his time." It would have been but ill-spoken by Methusalem in the nine hundred sixty-ninth year of his life; so far it is from us, who have not time enough to attain to the utmost perfection of any part of any science, to have cause to complain that we are forced to be idle for want of work. But this, you will say, is work only for the learned; others are not capable either of the employments or divertisements that arrive from letters. I know they are not; and therefore cannot much recommend solitude to a man totally illiterate. But, if any man be so unlearned as to want entertainment of the little intervals of accidental solitude, which frequently occur in almost all conditions (except the very meanest of the people, who have business enough in the necessary provisions for life), it is truly a great shame both to his parents and to himself, for a very small portion of any ingenious art will stop up all these gaps of our time; either music, or painting, or designing, or chemistry, or history, or gardening, or twenty other things, will do it usefully and pleasantly; and if he happen to set his affections upon poetry (which I do not advise him too immoderately), that will overdo it; no wood will be thick enough to hide him from the importunities of company or business, which would abstract him from his beloved. Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good! And for their quiet rests and plenteous food Hail, the poor Muses' richest manor-seat; That for you oft they quit their bright and great 1 Here Nature does a house for me erect; Who those fond artists does despise Ah wretched and too solitary he, He'll feel the weight of't many a day, Unless he call in sin or vanity To help to bear't away. Oh solitude, first state of human kind! As soon as two, alas! together join'd, XII. SIR THOMAS BROWNE. SIR THOMAS BROWNE was born in London in 1605. He was educated at Winchester and Oxford, and after graduating, devoted himself to the study of medicine, which he prosecuted at Padua and Leyden, then the most famous medical schools in Europe. Returning from the Continent, he settled for a short time at London, and thence removed to Norwich, where he spent the rest of his life, carrying on his scientific researches, and discharging the duties of his profession, undisturbed by the din of civil war which raged all around. His works procured him a wide-spread reputation, and in 1671 Charles II., when on a visit to Norwich, bestowed on him the honour of knighthood. He died in 1682. His works are 66 Religio Medici, or Religion of a Physician," "Pseudodoxia Epidemica, or Enquiries into Vulgar Errors," Hydriotaphia, a Discourse on Sepulchral Urns," "The Garden of Cyrus,” “Christian Morals," and some minor performances. Few works were more popular when first produced than those of Sir Thomas Browne, and perhaps none of that age have at the present day a wider circle of enthusiastic admirers. His Religio Medici" passed through twelve editions during the author's life, was translated 66 66 1 In the time of Cowley great was probably always pronounced so as to rhyme to seat. This pronunciation was retained till near the close of last century, for Dr Johnson, though told by Lord Chesterfield that great should be made to rhyme to state, was also told by the best speaker in the House of Commons that nobody but an Irishman would pronounce it in any other way than so as to rhyme to seat. 66 145 into most of the Continental languages, called forth a host of imitators, and is still read with pleasure. The style of Browne's works is very peculiar and characteristic; pedantic, obscure, abounding in newcoined Latin words and learned allusions, it is yet dignified and pleasing, sometimes eloquent and forcible, and flows with a graceful musical rhythm, exceedingly agreeable to a cultivated ear, and not perceptible to the same extent in any contemporary writer. His remarks may sometimes appear unimportant, and are not seldom farfetched and ingenious rather than solid; but they are never commonplace, and always bear the impress of a mind quaint, perhaps, and singularly constituted, but vigorous, original, and untiring in the pursuit of truth. The following extracts are from the excellent edition of Browne by Mr Wilkin of Norwich. 66 I could never divide myself from any man upon the difference of an opinion, or be angry with his judgment for not agreeing with me in that from which, perhaps, within a few days, I should dissent myself. I have no genius to disputes in religion; and have often thought it wisdom to decline them, especially upon a disadvantage, or when the cause of truth might suffer in the weakness of my patronage. Where we desire to be informed, 'tis good to contest with men above ourselves; but, to confirm and stablish our opinions, 'tis best to argue with judgments below our own, that the frequent spoils and victories over their reasons may settle in ourselves an esteem and confirmed opinion of our own. Every man is not a proper champion for truth, nor fit to take up the gauntlet in the cause of verity; many, from the ignorance of these maxims, and an inconsiderate zeal unto truth, have too rashly charged the troops of error, and remain as trophies unto the enemies of truth. A man may be in as just possession of truth as of a city, and yet be forced to surrender; 'tis therefore far better to enjoy her with peace than hazard her in a battle. If, therefore, there rise any doubts in my way, I do forget them, or at least defer them, till my better settled judgment and more manly reason be able to resolve them; for I perceive every man's own reason is his best Edipus,2 and will, upon a reasonable truce, find a way to loose those bonds wherewith the subtleties of error have enchained our more flexible and tender judgments. In philosophy, where truth seems double-faced, there is no man more paradoxical than myself: but in divinity I love to keep the road; and though not in an implicit, yet an humble faith, follow the great wheel of the church; not reserving any proper poles or motion from the epicycle of my own brain. By this means I leave 3 1 This work contains a summary of Browne's religious opinions. 2 Edipus became King of Thebes by solving the Sphinx's riddle; hence the passage in the text means, every man's own reason, if properly used, will solve all doubts and difficulties in his religion. 3 An epicycle is a circle described round a point in the circumference of another circle; the meaning is, "I adhere to the church's authority without wandering in any peculiar way of my own." K |