ings of this era was the execution of the present that such devilish arts have been and are the other, authorised translation of the Bible. At the great what exact trial and severe punishment they merit: conference held in 1604 at Hampton Court, be- and therefore reason I, what kind of things are postween the established and puritan clergy, the ver-sible to be performed in these arts, and by what sion of Scripture then existing was generally dis- natural causes they may be. Not that I touch every approved of, and the king consequently appointed particular thing of the devil's power, for that were infifty-four men, many of whom were eminent as finite: but only, to speak scholasticly (since this Hebrew and Greek scholars, to commence a new cannot be spoken in our language), I reason upon translation. In 1607, forty-seven of the number genus, leaving species and differentia to be compremet, in six parties, at Oxford, Cambridge, and West- hended therein. As, for example, speaking of the minster, and proceeded to their task, a certain por- power of magicians in the first book and sixth chapter, tion of Scripture being assigned to each. Every say that they can suddenly cause be brought unto individual of each division, in the first place, trans- them all kinds of dainty dishes by their familiar lated the portion assigned to the division, all of spirit: since as a thief he delights to steal, and as a which translations were collected; and when each spirit he can subtilly and suddenly enough transport party had determined on the construction of its part, the same. Now, under this genus may be comprehended it was proposed to the other divisions for general all particulars depending thereupon; such as the approbation. When they met together, one read the bringing wine out of a wall (as we have heard oft to new version, whilst all the rest held in their hands have been practised) and such others; which partieither copies of the original, or some valuable verculars are sufficiently proved by the reasons of the sion; and on any one objecting to a passage, the general. reader stopped till it was agreed upon. The result was published in 1611, and has ever since been reputed as a translation generally faithful, and an excellent specimen of the language of the time. Being universally read by all ranks of the people, it has contributed most essentially to give stability and uniformity to the English tongue. KING JAMES I. [How Witches Travel.] Philomathes. But by what way say they, or think ye it possible, they can come to these unlawful conven tions? Epistemon. There is the thing which I esteem their senses to be deluded in, and, though they lie not in confessing of it, because they think it to be true, yet not to be so in substance or effect, for they say, that KING JAMES was himself an author, but his works ing of their master, or to the putting in practice any by divers means they may convene either to the adorare now considered merely as curiosities. His most service of his committed unto their charge; one way is celebrated productions are the Basilicon Doron, Da-natural, which is natural riding, going, or sailing, at monology, and A Counterblast to Tobacco. The first was written, for the instruction of his son Prince Henry, a short time before the union of the crowns, and seems not to have been originally intended for the press. In the Dæmonology,' the British Solomon displays his wisdom and learning in maintaining the existence and criminality of witches, and discussing the manner in which their feats are performed. Our readers will be amused by the following extracts from this performance, the first of which is from the preface: [Sorcery and Witchcraft.] The fearful abounding at this time in this country of these detestable slaves of the devil, the witches or enchanters, hath moved me (beloved reader) to despatch in post this following treatise of mine, not in any wise (as I protest) to serve for a show of my learning and ingine, but only, moved of conscience, to press thereby, so far as I can, to resolve the doubting hearts of many; both that such assaults of Sathan are most certainly practised, and that the instruments thereof merits most severely to be punished: against the damnable opinions of two principally in our age, whereof the one called Scot, an Englishman, is not ashamed in public print to deny that there can be such a thing as witchcraft; and so maintains the old error of the Sadducees in denying of spirits. The other called Wierus, a German physician, sets out a public apology for all these crafts-folks, whereby, proeuring for their impunity, he plainly bewrays himself to have been one of that profession. And for to make this treatise the more pleasant and facile, I have put it in form of a dialogue, which I have divided into three books: the first speaking of magic in general, and necromancy in special: the second, of sorcery and witchcraft and the third contains a discourse of all these kinds of spirits, and spectres that appears and troubles persons: together with a conclusion of the whole work. My intention in this labour is only to prove two things, as I have already said: the one, what hour their master comes and advertises them. And this way may be easily believed. Another way is somewhat more strange, and yet it is possible to be true which is by being carried by the force of the spirit which is their conductor, either above the earth or above the sea, swiftly, to the place where they are to meet: which I am persuaded to be likewise possible, in respect that as Habakkuk was carried by the angel in that form to the den where Daniel lay, so think I the devil will be ready to imitate God, as well in that as in other things: which is much more possible to him to do, being a spirit, than to a mighty wind, being but a natural meteor, to transport from one place in practice. But in this violent form they cannot be to another a solid body as is commonly and daily seen carried but a short bounds, agreeing with the space that they may retain their breath: for if it were longer, their breath could not remain unextinguished, their body being carried in such a violent and forcible his life is but in peril, according to the hard or soft manner, as, by example, if one fall off a small height, lighting; but if one fall from a high and stayl rock, fore he can win to the earth, as is oft seen by experihis breath will be forcibly banished from the body beence. And in this transporting they say themselves, that they are invisible to any other, except amongst themselves. For if the devil may form what kind of impressions he pleases in the air, as I have said before, speaking of magic, why may he not far easier thicken and obscure so the air 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 ecstacy, 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 mean time, 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 entertaining prose writers of this age was ROBERT BURTON (1576-1639-40), rector of Segrave in Leicestershire, and a member of Christ-church, Oxford. Burton was a man of great benevolence, integrity, and learning, but of a whimsical and melancholy disposition. Though at certain times he was a facetious companion, at others his spirits were very low; and when in this condi Robert Burton. tion, 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. To alleviate his mental distress, he wrote a book, entitled The Anatomy of Melancholy, which appeared in 1621, and presents, in quaint language, and with many shrewd and amusing remarks, a view of all the modifications of that disease, and the manner of curing it. The erudition displayed in this work is extraordinary, every page abounding with quotations from Latin 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.' Its reputation was considerably extended by the publication of Illustrations of Sterne,' in 1798, by the late Dr Ferriar of Manchester, who convicted that writer of copying passages, verbatim, from Burton, without acknowledgment. Many others have, with like silence, extracted materials from his pages. The book has lately been more than once reprinted. 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.] All my joys to this are folly; When I go walking all alone, When to myself I act and smile, When I lie, sit, or walk alone, Methinks I hear, methinks I see All other joys to this are folly; Methinks I hear, methinks I see All my griefs to this are jolly; Of Burton's prose, the following will serve as a specimen : [Melancholy and Contemplation.] Voluntary solitariness is that which is familiar with melancholy, and gently brings on, like a Siren, a shooing-horn, or some sphinx, to this irrevocable gulf: a primary cause Piso calls it most pleasant it is at first, to such as are melancholy given, to lie in bed whole days, and keep their chambers; to walk alone in some solitary grove, betwixt wood and water, by a brook side; to meditate upon some delightsome and pleasant subject, which shall affect them most; 'amabilis insania,' and 'mentis gratissimus error.' A most incomparable delight it is so to melancholise, and build castles in the air; to go smiling to themselves, acting an infinite variety of parts, which they suppose and strongly imagine they represent, or that they see acted or done. Blanda quidem ab initio' -['pleasant, indeed, it is at first'], saith Lemnius, to conceive and meditate of such pleasant things sometimes, present, past, or to come, as Rhasis speaks. So delightsome these toys are at first, they could spend whole days and nights without sleep, even whole years alone in such contemplations and fantastical meditations, which are like unto dreams: and they will hardly be drawn from them, or willingly interrupt. So pleasant their vain conceits are, that they hinder their ordinary tasks and necessary business; they cannot address themselves to them, or almost to any study or employment: these fantastical and bewitching thoughts so covertly, so feelingly, so urgently, so continually set upon, creep in, insinuate, possess, overcome, distract, and detain them; they cannot, I say, go about their more necessary business, stave off or extricate themselves, but are ever musing, melancholising, and carried along, as he (they say) that is led round about an heath with a puck in the night. They run earnestly on in this labyrinth of anxious and solicitous melancholy meditations, and cannot well or willingly refrain, or easily leave off winding and unwinding themselves, as so many clocks, and still pleasing their humours, until at last the scene is turned upon a sudden, by some bad object; and they, being now habituated to such vain meditations and solitary places, can endure no company, can ruminate of nothing but harsh and distasteful subjects. Fear, sorrow, suspicion, subrusticus pudor'-[' clownish bashfulness'], discontent, cares, and weariness of life, surprise them in a moment; and they can think of nothing else: continually suspecting, no sooner are their eyes open, but this infernal plague of melancholy seizeth on them, and terrifies their souls, representing some dismal object to their minds, which now, by no means, no labour, no persuasions, they can avoid; hæret lateri lethalis arundo'-['the deadly arrow sticks fast in their side']; they may not be rid of it; they cannot resist. I may not deny but that there is some profitable meditation, contemplation, and kind of solitariness to be embraced, which the fathers so highly commended (Hierom, Chrysostome, Cyprian, Austin, in whole tracts, which Petrarch, Erasmus, Stella, and others, so much magnify in their books); a paradise, a heaven on earth, if it be used aright, good for the body, and better for the soul; as many of these old monks used it, to divine contemplation; as Simulus, a courtier in Adrian's time, Dioclesian the emperor, retired themselves, &c. In that sense, 'Vatia solus scit vivere”-[' Vatia alone knows how to live']; which the Romans were wont to say, when they commended a country life; or to the bettering of their knowledge, as Democritus, Cleanthes, and those excellent philosophers have ever done, to sequester themselves from the tumultuous world; or as in Pliny's Villa Laurentana, Tully's Tuscula, Jovius's study, that they might better vacare studiis et Deo' ['give themselves up to God and their studies']. Methinks, therefore, our too zealous innovators were not so well advised in that general subversion of abbeys and religious houses, promiscuously to fling down all. They might have taken away those gross abuses crept in amongst them, rectified such inconveniences, and not so far to have raved and raged against those fair buildings and everlasting monuments 6 of our forefathers' devotion, consecrated to pious uses. Some monasteries and collegiate cells might have been well spared, and their revenues otherwise employed, here and there one, in good towns or cities at least, for men and women of all sorts and conditions to live in, to sequester themselves from the cares and tumults of the world, that were not desirous or fit to marry, or otherwise willing to be troubled with common affairs, and knew not well where to bestow themselves; to live apart in, for more conveniency, good education, better company sake; to follow their studies (I say) to the perfection of arts and sciences, common good, and, as some truly devoted monks of old had done, freely and truly to serve God: for these men are neither solitary nor idle, as the poet made answer to the husbandman in Æsop, that objected idleness to him; he was never so idle as in his company; or that Scipio Africanus, in Tully, 'nunquam minus solus, quam cum solus; nunquam minus otiosus quam cum esset otiosus'-['never less solitary than when he was alone, never more busy than when he seemed to be most idle']. It is reported by Plato, in his dialogue De Amore, in that prodigious commendation of Socrates, how a deep meditation coming into Socrates's mind by chance, he stood still musing,eodem vestigio cogitabundus,' from morning to noon; and when, as then he had not yet finished his meditation, 'perstabat cogitans,' he so continued till the evening; the soldiers (for he then followed the camp) observed him with admiration, and on set purpose watched all night; but he persevered immoveable, ad exortum solis,' till the sun rose in the morning, and then, saluting the sun, went his ways. In what humour constant Socrates did thus, I know not, or how he might be affected; but this would be pernicious to another man ; what intricate business might so really possess him, I cannot easily guess; but this is otiosum otium'-['careless tranquillity']; it is far otherwise with these men, according to Seneca: 'omnia nobis mala solitudo persuadet'-['this solitude undoeth us']; 'pugnat cum vitâ sociali'-[' 'tis a destructive solitariness']. These men are devils alone, as the saying is, 'homo solus aut deus aut demon'-['a man alone, is either a saint or a devil']; 'mens ejus aut languescit, aut tumescit'-[' his mind either languishes or bursts']; and væ soli!'-in this sense, wo be to him that is so alone! These wretches do frequently degenerate from men, and, of sociable creatures, become beasts, monsters, inhumane, ugly to behold-misanthropi; they do even loathe themselves, and hate the company of men, as so many Timons, Nebuchadnezzars, by too much indulging to these pleasing humours, and through their own default. So that which Mercurialis (consil. 11.) sometimes expostulated with his melancholy patient, may be justly applied to every solitary and idle person in particular: Natura de te videtur conqueri posse,' &c.-['Nature may justly complain of thee, that, whereas she gave thee a good wholesome temperature, a sound body, and God hath given thee so divine and excellent a soul, so many good parts and profitable gifts; thou hast not only contemned and rejected, but hast corrupted them, polluted them, overthrown their temperature, and perverted those gifts with riot, idleness, solitariness, and many other ways; thou art a traitor to God and nature, an enemy to thyself and to the world']. Perditiæ tuæ ex te' &c.—['thou hast lost thyself wilfully, cast away thyself; thou thyself art the efficient cause of thine own misery, by not resisting such vain cogitations, but giving way unto them']. Burton, who believed in judicial astrology, is said to have foretold, from a calculation of his nativity, the time of his own death; which occurred at the period he predicted, but not without some 18 for Adam's holiday hose and doublet were of no better stuff than plain fig-leaves, and Eve's best gown of the same piece; there went but a pair of shears between them. An antiquary of this town has yet some of the powder of those leaves to show. Tailors then were none of the twelve companies; their hall, that now is larger than some dorfes among the Netherlanders, was then no bigger than a Dutch butcher's shop: they durst not strike down their customers with large bills: Adam cared not an apple-paring for their lousy hems. There was then neither the Spanish slop, nor the skipper's galligaskin, nor the Danish sleeve, nor the French standing collar: your treblequadruple ruffs, nor your stiff-necked rabatos, that have more arches for pride than can stand under five London bridges, durst not then set themselves out in point; for the patent for starch could by no means be signed. Fashion was then counted a disease, and horses died of it; but now, thanks to folly, it is held the only rare physic, and the purest golden asses live upon it. [How a Gallant should behave himself in Paul's Walks.*] He that would strive to fashion his legs to his silk stockings, and his proud gait to his broad garters, let him whiff down these observations: for, if he once get to walk by the book, and I see no reason but he may, as well as fight by the book, Paul's may be proud of him; Will Clarke shall ring forth encomiums in his honour; John, in Paul's churchyard, shall fit his head for an excellent block; whilst all the inns of court rejoice to behold his most handsome calf. Your mediterranean isle is then the only gallery, wherein the pictures of all your true fashionate and complimental gulls are, and ought to be hung up. Into that gallery carry your neat body; but take heed you pick out such an hour, when the main shoal of himself, he is described as having lived and died by islanders are swimming up and down. And first obmelancholy. THOMAS DEKKER. It may be observed, that there was no absolute want of the lighter kind of prose during this age. Several of the dramatists and others amused themselves by throwing off small works of a satirical and humorous cast, but all of them in a style so far from pure or elegant, and so immediately referring to passing manners, that they have, with hardly an exception, sunk into oblivion. THOMAS DEKKER, who has already been spoken of as a writer of plays, produced no fewer than fourteen works of this kind. In one, entitled The Gull's Hornbook, published in 1609, he assumes the character of a guide to the fashionable follies of the town, but only with the design of exposing them to ridicule. The following extracts may serve as specimens of the light writing of the period: [Against Fine Clothes.] Good clothes are the embroidered trappings of pride, and good cheer the very root of gluttony. Did man, think you, come wrangling into the world about no better matters, than all his lifetime to make privy searches in Birchin Lane for whalebone doublets, or for pies of nightingales' tongues in Heliogabalus his kitchen? No, no; the first suit of apparel that ever mortal man put on, came neither from the mercer's shop nor the merchant's warehouse: Adam's bill would have been taken then, sooner than a knight's bond now; yet was he great in nobody's books for satin and velvets. The silk-worms had something else to do in those days than to set up looms, and be free of the weavers. His breeches were not so much worth as King Stephen's, that cost but a poor noble ; serve your doors of entrance, and your exit; not much unlike the players at the theatres; keeping your decorums, even in fantasticality. As, for example, if you prove to be a northern gentleman, I would wish cially than any of the other; and so, according to you to pass through the north door, more often espeyour countries, take note of your entrances. spect, and wary what pillar you come in at; and take Now for your venturing into the walk. Be circumheed in any case, as you love the reputation of your honour, that you avoid the serving-man's log, and approach not within five fathom of that pillar; but bend your course directly in the middle line, that the whole body of the church may appear to be yours; where, in view of all, you may publish your suit in what manner you affect most, either with the slide of your cloak from the one shoulder; and then you must, as 'twere in anger, suddenly snatch at the middle of the inside, if it be taffeta at the least; and so by that means your costly lining is betrayed, or else by the pretty advantage of compliment. But! one note by the way do I especially woo you to, the neglect of which makes many of our gallants cheap four turns; but in the fifth make yourself away, either and ordinary, that by no means you be seen above in some of the semsters' shops, the new tobacco office, or amongst the booksellers, where, if you cannot read, exercise your smoke, and inquire who has writ against this divine weed, &c. For this withdrawing yourself a little will much benefit your suit, which else, by too long walking, would be stale to the whole spectators: but howsoever, if Paul's jacks be once up with their elbows, and quarrelling to strike eleven; as soon as ever the clock has parted them, and ended the fray with his hammer, let not the duke's gallery contain you any longer, but pass away apace in open * St Paul's Cathedral was then a public promenade. view; in which departure, if by chance you either encounter, or aloof off throw your inquisitive eye upon any knight or squire, being your familiar, salute him not by his name of Sir such-a-one, or so; but call him Ned, or Jack, &c. This will set off your estimation with great men; and if, though there be a dozen companies between you, 'tis the better, he call aloud to you, for that is most genteel, to know where he shall find you at two o'clock; tell him at such an ordinary, or such; and be sure to name those that are dearest, and whither none but your gallants resort. After dinner you may appear again, having translated yourself out of your English cloth cloak into a light Turkey grogram, if you have that happiness of shifting; and then be seen, for a turn or two, to correct your teeth with some quill or silver instrument, and to cleanse your gums with a wrought handkerchief: it skills not whether you dined, or no; that is best known to your stomach, or in what place you dined; though it were with cheese, of your own mother's making, in your chamber, or study. JOSEPH HALL. JOSEPH HALL, bishop of Norwich, whose poetical satires have already been mentioned, was the author of many controversial tracts in defence of episcopacy; and, like many other churchmen, he suffered for his opinions during the ascendancy of the Presbyterians. He published also a variety of sermons, meditations, epistles, paraphrases, and other pieces of a similar character. This distinguished prelate died in 1656. From the pithy and sententious quality of his style, he has been called the English Seneca;' many parts of his prose writings have the thought, feeling, and melody of the finest poetry. The most popular of his works is that entitled Occasional Meditations, a few extracts from which are here subjoined. 6 Upon the Sight of a Tree Full-blossomed. means, am less cheerful and confident; reason and faith have not done so much in me, as in thee mere instinct of nature; want of foresight makes thee more merry if not more happy here, than the foresight of better things maketh me. O God, thy providence is not impaired by those powers thou hast given me above these brute things; let not my greater helps hinder me from a holy security, and comfortable reliance on thee. Upon the Kindling of a Charcoal Fire. There are not many creatures but do naturally affect to diffuse and enlarge themselves; fire and water will neither of them rest contented with their own bounds; those little sparks that I see in those coals, how they spread and enkindle their next brands! It is thus morally both in good and evil; either of them dilates itself to their neighbourhood; but especially this is so much more apparent in evil, by how much we are more apt to take it. Let but some spark of heretical opinion be let fall upon some unstable, proud, busy spirit, it catcheth instantly, and fires the next capable subject; they two have easily inflamed a third; and now the more society the more speed and advantage of a public combustion. When we see the church on a flame, it is too late to complain of the flint and steel; it is the holy wisdom of superiors to prevent the dangerous attritions of stubborn and wrangling spirits, or to quench their first sparks in the tinder. But why should not grace and truth be as successful in dilating itself to the gaining of many hearts? Certainly these are in themselves more winning, if our corruption had not made us indisposed to good: God, out of a holy envy and emulation at the speed of evil, I shall labour to enkindle others with these heavenly flames; it shall not be my fault if they spread not. Upon the Sight of two Snails. There is much variety even in creatures of the same Here is a tree overlaid with blossoms; it is not possible that all these should prosper; one of them kind. See there, two snails; one hath an house, the must needs rob the other of moisture and growth; I other wants it; yet both are snails, and it is a quesdo not love to see an infancy over-hopeful; in these tion, whether case is the better: that which hath a pregnant beginnings one faculty starves another, and house hath more shelter, but that which wants it hath at last leaves the mind sapless and barren: as, there-burden; you see, if it hath but a stone to climb over, more freedom; the privilege of that cover is but a fore, we are wont to pull off some of the too frequent with what stress it draws up that beneficial load; and blossoms, that the rest may thrive, so, it is good wis- if the passage prove strait, finds no entrance; whereas dom to moderate the early excess of the parts, or progress of over-forward childhood. Neither is it otherwise in our Christian profession; a sudden and lavish ostentation of grace may fill the eye with wonder, and the mouth with talk, but will not at the last fill the lap with fruit. Let me not promise too much, nor raise too high expectations of my undertakings; I had rather men should complain of my small hopes than of my short performances. Upon Occasion of a Red-breast coming into his Chamber. Pretty bird, how cheerfully dost thou sit and sing, and yet knowest not where thou art, nor where thou shalt make thy next meal; and at night must shroud thyself in a bush for lodging! What a shame is it for me, that see before me so liberal provisions of my God, and find myself sit warm under my own roof, yet am ready to droop under a distrustful and unthankful dulness. Had I so little certainty of my harbour and purveyance, how heartless should I be, how careful; how little list should I have to make music to thee or myself! Surely thou comest not hither without a providence. God sent thee not so much to delight, as to shame me, but all in a conviction of my sullen unbelief, who, under more apparent the empty snail makes no difference of way. Surely it is always an ease and sometimes a happiness to have nothing; no man is so worthy of envy as he that can be cheerful in want. Upon Hearing of Music by Night. How sweetly doth this music sound in this dead season! In the day-time it would not, it could not, so much affect the ear. All harmonious sounds are advanced by a silent darkness; thus it is with the glad tidings of salvation; the gospel never sounds so sweet as in the night of preservation, or of our own private affliction; it is ever the same, the difference is in our disposition to receive it. O God, whose praise it is to give songs in the night, make my prosperity conscionable, and my crosses cheerful. Upon the Sight of an Owl in the Twilight. What a strange melancholic life doth this creature lead; to hide her head all the day long in an ivy bush, and at night, when all other birds are at rest, to fly abroad, and vent her harsh notes. I know not why the ancients have sacred this bird to wisdom, except it be for her safe closeness and singular perspicuity; that when other domestical and airy creatures |