air; and it grows still so much the firmer, by how much broader the bottom and sharper the top.

The ground upon which all government stands, is the consent of the people, or the greatest or strongest part of them; whether this proceed from reflections upon what is past, by the reverence of an authority under which they and their ancestors have for many ages been born and bred; or from sense of what is present, by the ease, plenty, and safety they enjoy; or from opinions of what is to come, by the fear they have from the present government, or hopes from another. Now that government which by any of these, or all these ways, takes in the consent of the greatest number of the people, and consequently their desires and resolutions to support it, may justly be said to have the broadest bottom, and to stand upon the largest compass of ground; and, if it terminate in the authority of one single person, it may likewise be said to have the narrowest top, and so to make the figure of the firmest sort of pyramid.

On the contrary, a government which by alienating the affections, losing the opinions, and crossing the interests of the people, leaves out of its compass the greater part of its consent, may justly be said, in the same degrees it thus loses ground, to narrow its bottom; and if this be done to serve the ambition, humour the passion, satisfie the appetites, or advance the power and interests not only of one man, but of two, or more, or many that come to share in the government; by this means the top may be justly said to grow broader, as the bottom narrower by the other. Now by the same degrees that either of these happen, the stability of the figure is by the same lessened and impaired; so as at certain degrees it begins to grow subject to accidents of wind and of weather; and at certain others, it is sure to fall of it self, or by the least shake that happens, to the ground.—(An Essay upon the Origin and Nature of Government.)

ISAAC BARROW,

b. 1630, d. 1677.

That distinction which thou standest upon, and which seemeth so vast between thy poor neighbour and thee, what is it? Whence did it come? Whither tends it? It is not any-wise natural, or according to primitive design: for as all men are in faculties and endowments of nature equal, so were they all originally equal in condition, all wealthy and happy, all constituted in a most prosperous and plentiful estate; all things at first were promiscuously exposed to the use and enjoyment of all, every one from the common stock assuming as his own what he needed. Inequality and private interest in things (together with sicknesses and pains, together with all other infelicities and inconveniences) were the by-blows of our fall; sin introduced these degrees and distances; it devised the names of rich and poor; it begot these ingrossings and inclosures of things; it forged those two small pestilent words, meum and tuum,

which have engendred so much strife among men, and created so much mischief in the world: these preternatural distinctions were (I say) brooded by our fault, and are in great part fostered and maintained thereby; for were we generally so good, so just, so charitable as we should be, they could hardly subsist, especially in that measure they do. God indeed (for promoting some good ends, and for prevention of some mischiefs, apt to spring from our illnature in this our lapsed state; particularly to prevent the strife and disorder which scrambling would cause among men, presuming on equal right, and parity of force) doth suffer them in some manner to continue, and enjoyns us a contented submission to them: but we mistake, if we think that natural equality and community are in effect quite taken away; or that all the world is so cantonized among some few, that the rest have no share therein. No, every man hath still a competent patrimony due to him, and a sufficient provision made for his tolerable subsistence. God hath brought no man hither to be necessarily starved, or pinched with extreme want; but hath assigned to every one a child's portion, in some fair way to be obtained by him, either by legal right, or by humble request, which according to conscience ought to have effect. No inan therefore is allowed to detain, or to destroy superfluously what another man apparently wants, but is obliged to impart it to him: so that rich men are indeed but the treasurers, the stewards, the caterers of God for the rest of men, having a strict charge to "dispense unto every one his meat in due season," and no just privilege to withhold it from any: the honour of distribution is conferred on them, as a reward of their fidelity and care; the right of enjoyment is reserved to the poor, as a provision for their necessity.—(Barrow's Works.)

JOHN TILLOTSON,

ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY,

b. 1630, d. 1694.

Amongst too many other instances of the great corruption and degeneracy of the age wherein we live, the great and general want of sincerity in conversation is none of the least. The world is grown so full of dissimulation and compliment, that men's words are hardly any signification of their thoughts; and if any man measure his words by his heart and speak as he thinks, and do not express more kindness to every man, than men usually have for any man, he can hardly escape the censure of rudeness and want of breeding. The old English plainness and sincerity, that generous integrity of nature and honesty of disposition, which always argues true greatness of mind, and is usually accompanied with undaunted courage and resolution, is in a great measure lost among us; there hath been a long endeavour to transform us into foreign manners and fashions, and to bring us to servile imitation of none of the best of our neigh

bours, in some of the worst of their qualities: The dialect of conversation is now-a-days so swell'd with vanity and compliment, and so surfeited (as I may say) with expressions of kindness and respect, that if a man that lived an age or two ago should return into the world again, he would really want a dictionary to help him to understand his own language, and to know the true intrinsick value of the phrase in fashion, and would hardly at first believe at what a low rate the highest strains and expressions of kindness imaginable do commonly pass in current payment; and when he should come to understand it, it would be a great while before he could bring himself, with a good countenance and a good conscience, to converse with men upon equal terms, and in their own way.

And, in truth, it is hard to say, whether it should more provoke our contempt or our pity, to hear what solemn expressions of respect and kindness will pass between them, almost upon no occasion; how great honour and esteem they will declare for one whom perhaps they never heard of or saw before, and how entirely they are all on the sudden devoted to his service and interest, for no reason; how infinitely and eternally obliged to him for no benefit, and how extremely they will be concerned for him, yea, and afflicted too, for no cause. I know it is said, in justification of this hollow kind of conversation, that there is no harm, no real deceit in compliment, but the matter is well enough, so long as we understand one another; et verba valent ut nummi, "words are like money," and when the current value of them is generally understood, no man is cheated by them. This is something, if such words were any thing; but being brought into the account, they are meer cyphers. However, it is still a just matter of complaint, that sincerity and plainness are out of fashion, and that our language is running into a lye: that men have almost quite perverted the use of speech, and made words to signify nothing; that the greatest part of the conversation of mankind, and of their intercourse with one another, is little else but driving a trade of dissimulation; insomuch that it would make a man heartily sick and weary of the world to see the little sincerity that is in use and practice among men.-(Tillotson's Sermons.)

JOHN DRYDEN,

b. 1631, d. 1700.

To begin then with Shakespeare: he was the man who of all modern, and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them, not laboriously, but luckily: when he describes any thing, you more than see it, you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have wanted learning, give him the greater commendation; he was naturally learn'd; he Lee led not the spectacles of books to read nature; he look'd inwards, and found her there. I cannot say

he is every where alike; where he so, I should do him injury to compare him with the greatest of mankind. He is many times flat, insipid; his comick wit degenerating into clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great, when some great occasion is presented to him.

He

As for Jonson, to whose character I am now arriv'd, if we look upon him while he was himself (for his last plays were but his dotages) I think him the most learned and judicious writer which any theater ever had. He was a most severe judge of himself as well as others. One cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that he was frugal of it. In his works you find little to retrench or alter. Wit and language, and humour also in some measure, we had before him; but something of art was wanting to the drama till he came. manag'd his strength to more advantage than any who preceded him. You seldom find him making love in any of his scenes, or endeavouring to move the passions; his genius was too sullen and saturnine to do it gracefully, especially when he knew he came after those who had performed both to such an height. Humour was his proper sphere, and in that he delighted most to represent mechanick people. He was deeply conversant in the ancients, both Greek and Latine, and he borrow'd boldly from them: there is scarce a poet or historian among the Roman authors of those times whom he has not translated in Sejanus and Catiline. But he has done his robberies so openly, that one may see he fears not to be taxed by any law. He invades authors like a monarch; and what would be theft in other poets, is only victory in him. With the spoils of these writers he so represents old Rome to us, in its rites, ceremonies, and customs, that if one of their poets had written either of his tragedies, we had seen less of it than in him. If there was any fault in his language, 'twas that he weav'd it too closely and laboriously, in his comedies especially perhaps too, he did a little too much Romanize our tongue, leaving the words which he translated almost as much Latine as he found them; wherein though he learnedly followed their language, he did not enough comply with the idiom of ours. If I would compare him with Shakespeare, I must acknowledge him the more correct poet, but Shakespeare the greater wit. Shakespeare was the Homer, or father of our dramatick poets; Jonson was the Virgil, the pattern of elaborate writing; I admire him, but I love Shakespeare. (Of Dramatick Poesie, an Essay.)

SAMUEL PEPYS,

b. 1632, d. 1703.

June 14th, 1662. About 11 o'clock, having a room got ready for us we all went out to the Tower-hill; and there, over against the scaffold made on purpose this day, saw Sir Henry Vane brought. A very great press of people. He made a long speech, many times interrupted by the Sheriffe and others there; and they would have taken his paper out of his hand, but he would not let it go. But they caused

all the books of those that writ after him to be given the Sheriffe; and the trumpets were brought under the scaffold that he might not be heard. Then he prayed, and so fitted himself, and received the blow; but the scaffold was so crowded that we could not see it done. But Boreman, who had been upon the scaffold, told us, that first he began to speak of the irregular proceeding against him; that he was, against Magna Charta, denied to have his exceptions against the indictment allowed; and that there he was stopped by the Sheriffe. Then he drew out his paper of notes, and begun to tell them first his life; that he was born a gentleman; he had been till he was seventeen years old, a good fellow, but then it pleased God to lay a foundation of grace in his heart, by which he was persuaded, against his wordly interest, to leave all preferment and go abroad, where he might serve God with more freedom. Then he was called home; and made a member of the Long Parliament; where he never did, to this day, any thing against his conscience, but all for the glory of God. Here he would have given them an account of the proceedings of the Long Parliament, but they so often interrupted him, that at last he was forced to give over: and so fell into prayer for England in generall, then for the churches in England, and then for the City of London: and so fitted himself for the block, and received the blow. He had a blister, or issue, upon his neck, which he desired them not to hurt: he changed not his colour or speech to the last, but died justifying himself and the cause he had stood for; and spoke very confidently of his being presently at the right hand of Christ; and in all things appeared the most resolved man that ever died in that manner, and showed more of heate than cowardize, but yet with all humility and gravity. One asked him why he did not pray for the King. He answered, "You shall see I can pray for the King: I pray God bless him!" The King had given his body to his friends; and, therefore, he told them that he hoped they would be civil to his body when dead; and desired they would let him die like a gentleman and a Christian, and not crowded and pressed as he was. So to the office a little, and to the Trinity-house, and there all of us to dinner; and to the office again all the afternoon till night. This day, I hear, my Lord Peterborough is come unexpected from Tangier, to give the King an account of the place, which, we fear, is in none of the best condition. We had also certain news today that the Spaniard is before Lisbone with thirteen sayle; six Dutch, and the rest his own ships; which will, I fear, be ill for Portugall. I writ a letter of all this day's proceedings to my Lord, at Hinchingbroke.-(Pepys's Diary.)

DANIEL DEFOE,

b. 1661, d. 1731.

It was after this some considerable time, that being upon the top of the hill, at the east side of the island, from whence, as I have said, I had, in a clear day, discovered the main or continent of