of coming to his house at certain hours when I would, and to read to him what books he should appoint me, which was all the favour I desired. . . He received me courteously, as well for the sake of Dr Paget, who introduced me, as of Isaac Pennington, who recommended me, to both of whom he bore a good respect; and having inquired divers things of me, with respect to my former progressions in learning, he dismissed me, to provide myself of such accommodations as might be most suitable to my future studies. I went, therefore, and took myself a lodging as near to his house (which was then in Jewyn Street) as conveniently I could; and from thenceforward went every day in the afternoon, except on the first days of the week; and sitting by him in his dining-room, read to him such books, in the Latin tongue, as he pleased to hear me read. At my first sitting to read to him, observing that I used the English pronunciation, he told me if I would have the benefit of the Latin tongue, not only to read and understand Latin authors, but to converse with foreigners, either abroad or at home, I must learn the foreign pronunciation. To this I consenting, he instructed me how to sound the vowels, so different from the common pronunciation used by the English (who speak Anglice their Latin) that, with some few other variations in sounding some consonants, in particular cases-as C before E or I, like Ch; Sc before I, like Sh, &c.-the Latin thus spoken seemed as different from that which was delivered as the English generally speak it, as if it was another language. I had before, during my retired life at my father's, by unwearied diligence and industry so far recovered the rules of grammar, in which I had once been very ready, that I could both read a Latin author, and after a sort hammer out his meaning. But this change of pronunciation proved a new difficulty to me. It was now harder to me to read than it was before to under stand when read. But Labor omnia vincit improbus― 'Incessant pains the end obtains.' And so did I, which made my reading the more acceptable to my master. He on the other hand perceiving with what earnest desire I pursued learning, gave me not only all the encouragement but all the help he could; for having a curious ear, he understood by my tone when I understood what I read, and when I did not; and accordingly would stop me, examine me, and open the most difficult passages to me. . . . Some little time before I went to Aylesbury prison, I was desired by my quondam master, Milton, to take a house for him in the neighbourhood where I dwelt, that he might get out of the city for the safety of himself and his family, the pestilence then growing hot in London (1665). I took a pretty box for him in Giles Chalfont a mile from me, of which I gave him notice, and intended to have waited on him and seen him well settled in it, but was prevented by that imprisonment. But now being released and returned home, I soon made a visit to him to welcome him into the country. After some common discourses had passed between us, he called for a manuscript of his, which being brought he delivered to me, bidding me to take it home with me and read it at my leisure, and when I had so done, return it to him, with my judgment thereupon. When I came home and had set myself to read it, I found it was that excellent poem which he entituled Paradise Lost. After I had with the best attention read it through, I made him another visit and returned him his book, with due acknowledgment for the favour he had done me in con municating it to me. He asked me how I liked it, an what I thought of it, which I modestly but freely to him; and after some further discourse about it, pleasantly said to him: “Thou hast said much here Paradise lost; but what hast thou to say of Paradis found?' He made me no answer, but sat some time i a muse; then brake off that discourse, and fell upo another subject. After the sickness was over, and the city well cleansed and become safely habitable again, he returned thither And when afterwards I went to wait on him there, whic I seldom failed of doing whenever my occasions dre me to London, he shewed me his second poem, calle Paradise Regained, and in a pleasant tone said to me 'This is owing to you, for you put it into my head a Chalfont; which before I had not thought of.' Dr Thomas Sprat, Bishop of Rochester (1635) 1713), was praised by Dr Johnson as an autho whose pregnancy of imagination and eloquence o language have deservedly set him high in the rank of literature.' Lord Macaulay also eulogised him as a very great master of our language, and possessed at once of the eloquence of the orator the controversialist, and the historian.' Born at Beaminster in Dorset, at Wadham College, Oxford he studied mathematics under its warden, Dr Wilkins, in whose house scientific inquirers used to meet. Sprat's intimacy with Wilkins led to his election in 1663 as a member of the Royal Society: and in 1667 he published the history of that learned body, with the object of dissipating the prejudice and suspicion with which it was regarded by the public. Ordained in 1661, he was appointed chaplain to the Duke of Buckingham, whom he is said to have aided in writing the Rehearsal, in 1676 he was made chaplain to the king. Successively Canon of Westminster (1669), Canon of Windsor (1681), and Dean of Westminster (1683), he obtained the see of Rochester in 1684. Next year, by command of King Charles, he published an account of the Ryehouse Plot, for which, after the Revolution, he printed an apology; but having submitted to the new government, he was allowed, notwithstanding his attachment to the abdicated monarch, to remain unmolested in his bishopric. In 1692 he was falsely charged with joining in a conspiracy for the restoration of James, but cleared himself after a confinement of eleven days. In his earlier days Sprat wrote poems long included in collections of poetry-one on the death of the Protector (1658), and a Pindaric Ode on the Plague of Athens (1659). His reply to Sorbières' Voyage en Angleterre (1663) was a defence of England and Englishmen, full of just satire and ingenuity,' as Addison said. But his best-known work was his History of the Royal Society. The Life of his friend Cowley (1667) Dr Johnson called a funeral oration rather than a biography.' Two collections of sermons (1697 and 1710) were popular: 'his language,' said Doddridge, 'is always beautiful.' Sprat was -over-much given to hospitality, and over-profuse in expenditure. God revealed in Experimental Philosophy. We are guilty of false interpretations of providences and wonders, when we either make those to be miracles that are none, or when we put a false sense on those that are real; when we make general events to have a private aspect, or particular accidents to have some universal signification. Though both these may seem at first to have the strictest appearance of religion, yet they are the greatest usurpations on the secrets of the Almighty, and unpardonable presumptions on his high prerogatives of punishment and reward. And now, if a moderating of these extravagances must be esteemed profaneness, I profess I cannot absolve the experimental philosopher. It must be granted that he will be very scrupulous in believing all manner of commentaries on prophetical visions, in giving liberty to new predictions, and in assigning the causes and marking out the paths of God's judgments amongst his creatures. He cannot suddenly conclude all extraordinary events to be the immediate finger of God; because he familiarly beholds the inward workings of things, and thence perceives that many effects, which use to affright the ignorant, are brought forth by the common instruments of nature. He cannot be suddenly inclined to pass censure on men's eternal condition from any temporal judgments that may befall them; because his long converse with all matters, times, and places has taught him the truth of what the Scripture says, that 'all things happen alike to all.' He cannot blindly consent to all imaginations of devout men about future contingencies, seeing he is so rigid in examining all particular matters of fact. He cannot be forward to assent to spiritual raptures and revelations; because he is truly acquainted with the tempers of men's bodies, the composition of their blood, and the power of fancy, and so better understands the difference between diseases and inspirations. But in all this he commits nothing that is irreligious. 'Tis true, to deny that God has heretofore warned the world of what was to come, is to contradict the very Godhead itself; but to reject the sense which any private man shall fasten to it, is not to disdain the Word of God, but the opinions of men like ourselves. To declare against the possibility that new prophets may be sent from heaven, is to insinuate that the same infinite Wisdom which once shewed itself that way is now at an end. But to slight all pretenders that come without the help of miracles, is not a contempt of the Spirit, but a just circumspection that the reason of men be not overreached. To deny that God directs the course of human things is stupidity; but to hearken to every prodigy that men frame against their enemies, or for themselves, is not to reverence the power of God, but to make that serve the passions, the interests, and revenges of men. It is a dangerous mistake into which many good men fall, that we neglect the dominion of God over the world if we do not discover in every turn of human actions many supernatural providences and miraculous events. Whereas it is enough for the honour of his government that he guides the whole creation in its wonted course of causes and effects: as it makes as much for the reputation of a prince's wisdom, that he can rule his subjects peaceably by his known and standing laws, as that he is often forced to make use of extraordinary justice to punish or reward. Let us then imagine our philosopher to have all slowness of belief and rigour of trial, which by some is miscalled a blindness of mind and hardness of heart. Let us suppose that he is most unwilling to grant that anything exceeds the force of nature but where a full evidence convinces him. Let it be allowed that he is always alarmed, and ready on his guard, at the noise of any miraculous event, lest his judgment should be surprised by the disguises of faith. But does he by this diminish the authority of ancient miracles? or does he not rather confirm them the more, by confining their number, and taking care that every falsehood should not mingle with them? Can he by this undermine Christianity, which does not now stand in need of such extraordinary testimonies from heaven? or do not they rather endanger it who still venture its truths on so hazardous a chance, who require a continuance of signs and wonders, as if the works of our Saviour and his apostles had not been sufficient? Who ought to be esteemed the most carnally minded-the enthusiast that pollutes religion with his own passions, or the experimenter that will not use it to flatter and obey his own desires, but to subdue them? Who is to be thought the greatest enemy of the gospel-he that loads men's faiths by so many improbable things as will go near to make the reality itself suspected, or he that only admits a few arguments to confirm the evangelical doctrines, but then chooses those that are unquestionable? By this I hope it appears that this inquiring, this scrupulous, this incredulous temper, is not the disgrace but the honour of experiments. And therefore I will declare them to be the most seasonable study for the present temper of our nation. This wild amusing men's minds with prodigies and conceits of providence has been one of the most considerable causes of those spiritual distractions of which our country has long been the theatre. This is a vanity to which the English seem to have been always subject above others. There is scarce any modern historian that relates our foreign wars but he has this objection against the disposition of our countrymen, they used to order their affairs of the greatest importance according to some obscure omens or predictions that passed amongst them on little or no foundations. And at this time, especially this last year [1666], this gloomy and ill-boding humour has prevailed. So that it is now the fittest season for experiments to arise, to teach us a wisdom which springs from the depths of knowledge, to shake off the shadows and to scatter the mists which fill the minds of men with a vain consternation. This is a work well becoming the most Christian profession. For the most apparent effect which attended the passion of Christ was the putting of an eternal silence on all the false oracles and dissembled inspirations of ancient times. Cowley's Love of Retirement. Upon the king's happy restoration, Mr Cowley was past the fortieth year of his age; of which the greatest part had been spent in a various and tempestuous condition. He now thought he had sacrificed enough of his life to his curiosity and experience. He had enjoyed many excellent occasions of observation. He had been present in many great revolutions, which in that tumultuous time disturbed the peace of all our neighbour states as well as our own. He had nearly beheld all the splendour of the highest part of mankind. He had lived in the presence of princes, and familiarly conversed with greatness in all its degrees, which was necessary for one that would contemn it aright; for to scorn the pomp of the world before a man knows it, does commonly proceed rather from ill-manners than a true magnanimity. He was now weary of the vexations and formalities of an active condition. He had been perplexed with a long compliance to foreign manners. He was satiated with the arts of court; which sort of life though his virtue had made innocent to him, yet nothing could make it quiet. These were the reasons that moved him to forego all public employments, and to follow the violent inclination of his own mind, which in the greatest throng of his former business had still called upon him and represented to him the true delights of solitary studies, of temperate pleasures, and of a moderate revenue below the malice and flatteries of fortune. In his last seven or eight years he was concealed in his beloved obscurity, and possessed that solitude which from his very childhood he had always most passionately desired. Though he had frequent invitations to return into business, yet he never gave ear to any persuasions of profit or preferment. His visits to the city and court were very few; his stays in town were only as a passenger, not an inhabitant. The places that he chose for the seats of his declining life were two or three villages on the bank of the Thames. During this recess, his mind was rather exercised on what was to come than what was past; he suffered no more business nor cares of life to come near him than what were enough to keep his soul awake, but not to disturb it. Some few friends and books, a cheerful heart and innocent conscience, were his constant companions. I acknowledge he chose that state of life not out of any poetical rapture, but upon a steady and sober experience of human things. But, however, I cannot applaud it in him. It is certainly a great disparagement to virtue and learning itself, that those very things which only make men useful in the world should incline them to leave it. This ought never to be allowed to good men, unless the bad had the same moderation, and were willing to follow them into the wilderness. But if the one shall contend to get out of employment, while the other strive to get into it, the affairs of mankind are like to be in so ill a posture, that even the good men themselves will hardly be able to enjoy their very retreats in security. Lady Rachel Russell by her letters secured a place in literature, though less lofty than the niche in history she won by heroism and wifely love. Rachel Wriothesley (1636-1723) was the second daughter and co-heiress of the Earl of Southampton. In 1669, when widow of Lord Vaughan, she married Lord William Russell, the third son of the first Duke of Bedford. She was her second husband's senior by three years, yet her amiable and prudent character was said to have reclaimed him from the youthful follies into which he had plunged at the time of the Restoration. His later 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 man was Lord William Russell. The suspicious correspondence with Barillon (see the section on ALGERNON SIDNEY, Vol. I. page 715) leaves him unsullied, for the ambassador distinctly mentions Russell and Lord Holles 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. When Lord Russell asked, 'May I have somebody to write, to assist my memory?' the Attorney-General answered, 'Yes, a servant;' and the Lord ChiefJustice added, 'Any of your servants shall assist you in writing anything you please for you.' But Lord Russell proudly replied, 'My wife is here, my lord, to do it.' And when the spectators turned their eyes and beheld the devoted lady rising to aid her lord in his uttermost distress, a thrill of sympathy ran through the assembly. Lady Russell, after the condemnation of her husband, personally pled for his pardon, but in vain. He loved her as such a wife deserved to be loved; and on taking his final farewell of her, said, 'The bitterness of death is now past!' Fifty years after Lady Russell's death appeared that collection of her Letters which entitled her to a place in our literary history. Dr Fitzwilliam, her father's chaplain, became Canon of Windsor. Lord William Cavendish, afterwards second Duke of Devonshire, married Lady Russell's daughter. Henri Massue de Ruvigny, Lady Russell's cousin, was a Huguenot noble (son of a French ambassador) who settled in England on the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, took service under William III., and was made Viscount (1692) and Earl (1697) of Galway. To Dr Fitzwilliam. 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 fixt in my breast; but there are times the mind can hardly feel displeasure as while such friendly conversation entertaineth it; then a grateful sense moves one to express the courtesie. If I could contemplate the conducts of Providence with the uses you do, it would give ease indeed, and no disas trous 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 he is at rest, tho' 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 possest 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 mean time, 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.' . . . WOBORNE ABBY, 27th Novr. 1685. To Lord Cavendish. Tho' 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 Mountague 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 'tis 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 thro' 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 can't dye too soon, nor live too long. I hope the last shall be your lot, with many blessings attending it. 29th October 1690. To the Earl of Galway. 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, bat, 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 checkered my days on this earth, as I can thankfully reflect I felt many, I may say as 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 ballance with it. All other are like wine, which 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 can't be enjoyed without hazard. [1712.] Richard Cumberland (1631-1718), born at London, and educated at St Paul's and at Cambridge, held various cures from 1658, and was raised by King William to the see of Peterborough in 1691. He had published, in 1672, a Latin work, De Legibus Nature Disquisitio Philosophica, A Philosophical Inquiry into the Laws of Nature; in which their form, order, promul gation, and obligation are investigated from the nature of things; and in which also the philosophical principles of Hobbes, moral as well as civil, are considered and refuted.' This erudite but verbose treatise expounds some novel views, and lays down a distinctly utilitarian criterion in ethics. The laws of nature he deduces from the results of human conduct, regarding that to be commanded by God which conduces to the happiness of man. The public good is the summum bonum, and 'universal benevolence' the fountain of all virtue. He wrote also a learned essay on Jewish Weights and Measures (1686), dedicatedoddly enough to his friend Samuel Pepys, then President of the Royal Society; and a translation of Sanchoniatho's Phonician History (translated from Eusebius, with disquisitions; not published till 1720). He was a really learned man and an acute thinker, but at best a poor writer: his sentences are involved; he lacks humour and vivacity, grace and point; and his works are hopelessly tedious even where most suggestive. In the performance of his Episcopal duties he displayed rare activity, moderation, and benevolence. When expostulated with by friends about his too great labours, he replied with the now proverbial maxim, 'I will do my duty as long as I can; a man had better wear out than rust out.' Yet he lived to the age of eighty-six, in the enjoyment of such mental vigour that he successfully studied Coptic only three years before his death. The dramatist who bore the bishop's name was his great-grandson. There is a Life by Payne prefixed to the Sanchoniathon (1720). The De Legibus was twice translated (by Meacock in 1727, by Towers in 1750). Tate and Brady, if they resemble Beaumont and Fletcher in nothing else, are in the mouths and memories of Englishmen as inseparably associated; it is impossible to say Tate without thinking Brady. The rather uninspired pair in whose 'New Version' the English Church and people sang the Psalms of David for more than a hundred years were both Irish-born; one was wholly, the other partly, educated in Ireland. He Nahum Tate (1652-1715), son of a Dublin clergyman, was educated at Trinity College. He succeeded Shadwell as poet-laureate in 1690, in 1702 became also historiographer-royal, and is described by Oldys as 'a free, good-natured, fuddling companion.' His writings include ten dramatic pieces-one named from the mythical Brutus of Alba; adaptations of Shakespeare's Richard II. and Lear, and of plays by Chapman, Fletcher, and Marston. Addison denounced Tate's perversion of Lear, Johnson defended it, and it kept the stage till well into the nineteenth century. Other publications were Poems on Several Occasions (1677) and Panacea or a Poem on Tea. wrote a second part of Absalom and Achitophel, with a very successful imitation of Dryden's manner; and two hundred lines of the continuation and many passages here and there seem to have been actually added by Dryden himself. Tate did much work in collaboration with others, and executed some translations for the booksellers. His poetical taste may be judged by his translation, with high commendation, of the extraordinary poem of Fracastoro, Syphilidis sive Morbi Gallici Libri Tres, which enriched medical science with a new term. Early poems contain verses on subjects as unscriptural as a beldame song, a bawd who sat for her picture, skating (Sliding on Skates in Hard Frost), Lesbia's sparrow from Catullus, and drunken-amorous adventures from Propertius; and some of his verses are far from contemptible. But his name survives solely by the metrical version of the Psalms (1696), executed in conjunction with Nicholas Brady, which gradually supplanted the older version of Sternhold and Hopkins (see Vol. I. p. 150). The work as a whole was poor, but portions are not without poetic quality. The Supplement to the New Version (1703) was possibly the work of Tate alone; one thing in it, 'While shepherds watched,' has travelled over the Christian world. As pants the hart' is a rendering far above the usual level. Southey ranks Tate as poorest of the laureates after Shadwell; Ralph and Austin thought Eusden and Pye had a prior claim to come next Shadwell. Tate died in hiding from his creditors. The following is in quite a different rhythm and tone from the Psalms : On a Diseased Old Man who Wept at the Thought of Leaving the World. Shame on thy Beard! that thou canst Bug-bears dread, Fear Death whom thou so oft hast seen, So oft his Guest at Funerals hast been; Thy self, I mean thy Better Half, already Dead! The Miseries of Life, but now And act thy Troubles o'er agen, Is Folly not to be forgiv'n even in thy doating Age. Can Cramps, Catarrhs, and Palsies be Cold lodging in the grave, Thou sleeps't each night in so much Sear-cloth bound, Thou 'dst need no more to lodge thee underground. Nicholas Brady (1659–1726), born at Bandon, was educated at Westminster, Christ Church (Oxford), and Dublin, and held from 1696 to his death the living of Richmond, along with Stratfordon-Avon and Clapham in succession. He also kept a school at Richmond. The metrical version of the Psalms by him and Tate was authorised in 1696. His tragedy, The Rape, on a plot from the history of the Goths and Vandals, his blankverse Eneid, his Ode for St Cecilia's Day, and his sermons have long since sunk into deserved oblivion. Thomas Tenison (1636-1715), Archbishop of Canterbury, born at Cottenham in Cambridgeshire, studied at Corpus Christi, Cambridge, and was made Bishop of Lincoln by William III. in 1691, and primate of all England in 1694. He was a favourite at court, crowned Queen Anne and George I., and strongly supported the Hanoverian succession. His works comprise anti-papal tracts, sermons, and a criticism of Hobbes; but though Swift was unfair when he said he was a very dull man, the Archbishop was not a power in literature, and his books are not read. Matthew Henry (1662–1714) was born at Broad Oak farmhouse, Malpas, Flintshire, the son of Philip Henry, a pious and learned minister, just ousted by the Act of Uniformity. He entered as a student of law in Gray's Inn; but, yielding to a strong desire for the office of the ministry, he soon abandoned the pursuit of the law, and turned his attention to theology, which he studied with great diligence and zeal. In 1687 he was chosen pastor of a Nonconformist congregation at Chester, whence he removed in 1712 to Hackney. Of a variety of theological works published by him, the largest and best known is his Exposition of the Old and New Testaments (1710), which he did not live to complete, the Commentary on the Epistles being added by various divines. The work has little exegetical value, and is far from being a safe guide |