scene of his existence, to the exclusion of the more delightful consolations of the Bible; he only borrowed the words. to apply them to the expression of Christian faith and reliance in the atonement of a Redeemer. Thus he gave them a new spirit and a new signification. He died on the 1st of September, 1687, in the seventythird year of his age, and was buried in the chapel of the College, where the ashes of Mede and Cudworth rest by his side. In person he was tall and thin, and in early life, of an agreeable florid countenance, though the intensity of his application in after-times imparted a more pallid hue to his features; but his complexion was always clear and healthful, and his eye hazel and vivid as an eagle*. The nature of his occupations did not encourage the cultivation of the lighter accomplishments; but he had some skill in music, and played a little on the lute, till the painful ecstacy of the pleasure compelled him to relinquish it. His conversation was serious and pleasant, and Bishop Burnet, who visited him at Cambridge, spoke of him as an open-hearted Christian philosopher, who studied to establish men in the great principle of religion against Atheism. It is, however, to be lamented that this excellent man submitted his religious feelings to the direction of his imagination, or suffered them to assume even the faintest hue of a romantic or poetical character. He built, indeed, upon the Rock of Ages, yet he unintentionally defaced the majestic simplicity of Sacred Truth by the unlicensed indulgence of his fancy. He never for a moment suspected that he might be injuring by his conduct the cause he laboured so zealously to promote. But the purity and tranquillity which he enjoyed are given to few. A spectator of the world only through his "loop-holes of retreat;" unseduced by its allurements, uncorrupted by its pleasures * Ward. -he did not always consider that every heart was not like his own. The orthodoxy of his belief can alone be vindicated by a careful perusal of his writings. In them it will be seen how firmly he grasped the promises of the Gospel, and with what a sleepless eye of faith he waited for their accomplishment. From the declaration of the Scripture, as from a lofty tower, he looked afar into a happier and more peaceful future. "This, or such-like rhapsodies," he says in his Dialogues, "do I often sing to myself in the silent night, or betimes in the morning at break of day; subjoining always that of our Saviour as a suitable Epiphonema to all,—Abraham saw my day afar off, and rejoiced at it. At this window I take breath, while I am choked and stifled with the crowd and stench of the daily wickedness of this present evil world; and am almost quite wearied out with the tediousness and irksomeness of this my earthly pilgrimage." The mysticism of More's works was only the reflection of his life. He saw visions, and dreamed dreams. At one time, for ten days, he was, in his own phrase, nowhere, continuing all the time in a trance; yet during this period he ate, drank, slept, and went into Hall as usual, but the thread of his ruminations was never broken. While in this state, he affirmed that his thoughts possessed a singular clearness; his devotional feelings were not less ardent or powerful in their influence. Mr. Ward, when he occasionally met him coming from his chamber after prayer, discerned an illumination over his countenance, 66 as if his face had been wholly overcast with a golden shower of love and purity." Let us recollect that this was said of one whom some of the most eminent of his contemporaries pronounced the holiest person on the face of the earth. Though he was fond of solitude, and regretted that he had sacrificed so many hours to conversation, there was nothing selfish in his character; his love embraced every object. "A good man," he said, "would sometimes, in his own private reflections, be ready to kiss the very stones in the street." He was fond of meditating in the cool-summer evenings, when the air fanned "itself through the leaves of the arbour*,” and many incidental remarks in his prose works show him to have been a disciple of nature. He was charitable and benevolent to all. His chamberdoor, we are told by one who knew him familiarly, was an hospital. In one of his Discourses on several Texts, he touches upon the sentiments with which a good man regards the unhappiness he is unable to remove. "And even the most miserable objects in this present scene of things cannot divest him of his happiness, but rather modify it; the sweetness of his spirit being melted into a kindly compassion in the behalf of others, whom, if he be able to help, it is a greater accession to his joy; and if he cannot, the being conscious to himself of so sincere a compassion, and so harmonious and suitable to the present state of things, carries along with it some degree of pleasure, like mournful notes of music exquisitely well fitted to the sadness of the ditty." The sequestered paths of his own life were not much frequented by these melancholy sufferers, but a disregard of money marked all his actions, and one of the wishes nearest to his heart was the bequest of a valuable legacy to his beloved College. His philosophical works were all composed with the noblest intentions. The Leviathan of Hobbes, by its startling paradoxes and its bold assumption of truth, had gained many votaries, and it was in the hope of counteracting its pernicious tendency, that "a set of men at Cambridge" undertook to examine and publicly assert the principles of religion and morality, on simple grounds, and upon a philosophical plan. The most distinguished of these illus * See his Dialogues. trious champions were Cudworth, whom to name is to praise; the scientific Wilkins, whom Burnet declared the wisest clergyman he ever knew; and our poet, who led the way, the Bishop says, to many that came after him*. More has been dethroned from his literary supremacy, and from the most popular of authors, has become one of the most obscure. Yet, for many years after the Restoration, his works were held in extraordinary esteem. His philosophic writings are full of ingenuity and learning. He believed that the sacred knowledge of the Hebrews descended to Pythagoras, by whom it had been communicated to Plato, and this delusion affected everything he wrote and did. He imagined himself to be attended by a genius, like the Dæmon of Socrates, and would sometimes remark, in reference to this unearthly agent, that "there was something about us that knew better than ourselves what we would be at." It is impossible to suppress a smile at the philosopher who gravely assures us, that "Otho was pulled out of his bed by the ghost of Galba." His chapter on the employments of the “ Aërial People," in the Treatise on the Immortality of the Soul, is equally singular. But, when his fancy was not heated, he argued with great acuteness and precision, and no man ran the spear through his own shadows with greater dexterity. He frequently pleases, though he rarely convinces; and it should always be remembered, that his antagonist, Hobbes, declared his admiration of his philosophy, and that Addison commended his system of Ethics in the Spectator. The vanity of Hobbes, and the taste of Addison, speak powerfully in his cause. As a scholar, he was widely and deeply read, but learning he valued only as subservient to the higher and weightier matters of wisdom and truth. He constantly * Burnet's History of his own Time. Oxford edition, 1823, vol. i. p. 322. asserted that piety was the only key of true knowledge, which could proceed alone out of purity of life. He rejoiced that he was no wholesale man, for he said that a little armour was sufficient, if well placed. His prose is superior to his verse. No successful appeal can be made from Dr. Southey's severe judgment upon the Song of the Soul. His ears were first tuned to poetry by the music of the Fairy Queen, which his father often read aloud on the winter evenings: the harp of Spenser was never touched by a ruder hand. But to the few who are willing to accept the grandeur of the conception for the poverty of the execution, the poems of More Iwill not be destitute of interest. He did not wander along the Great Sea of Beauty without beholding the forms that rose from its waters; and from the intricacies of his harsh and gnarled phraseology, thoughts of grace and tenderness often come out to meet us. Mr. Campbell has compared his poetry to some strange grotto, whose gloomy labyrinths we might be curious to explore for the strange associations they excite. More was happy in the fellowship of some excellent men, who partook of his innocence, simplicity, and enthusiasm. Of these, by far the most remarkable was John Norris, whose few poems display no ordinary genius, and whose sermons on the Beatitudes overflow with sensibility. His life was in harmony with his profession; he built his tabernacle away from the tumult of the world, and set up his pillar of rest in a holy place*. His writings are imbued with the serene thoughtfulness of an amiable mind. His charming Idea of Happiness was the meditation of a few broken hours in a garden. Although not unvisited by those raptures, on account of which he gave More the name of the Intellectual Epicure, his fancy * His own words. VOL. I. Z |