tained any design of converting his life into a ro

mance.

It seems probable, moreover, that the critic was mistaken, as critics often are, in his interpretation of the passage immediately following, on which he has this remark: "Though he creepeth gently upon us at the first, yet he groweth a giant, an Atlas, (to use his own expression) at the last." It must be admitted, that in the part of the "Religio Medici" which called forth this animadversion, the language of Sir Thomas Browne is either obscure, or open to the charge implied in Digby's criticism. Occasionally, however, Browne is certainly obscure. Neglecting to combine his ideas harmoniously together, to render one proposition an easy step to the succeeding—an art which sometimes causes a very profound author to seem perspicuous, he rudely huddles his thoughts together, or sets them up on end, like isolated rocks in the midst of chasms dark and perilous, over which we must leap continually, to the great hazard of our necks, if we would explore the whole extent of his creations. And this is more particularly true of that portion of the work now under consideration. That such obscurity, breaks, and abrupt transitions are defects, and grievous ones too, in an argumentative treatise, no one will deny. But, after all, the question is, is he worth understanding? Which, if we answer in the affirmative, it next follows that he must be worth studying, without which we shall assuredly not understand him.

To proceed at once to the matter in hand: "For

the world," says Sir Thomas Browne, "I count it not an inn, but a hospital; and a place not to live, but to die in." This, though somewhat forced and extravagant is intelligible. He undoubtedly here. means, by "the world," that material domicile appointed to be our prison,-albeit not an uncheerful one, during the state of probation in which we exist here below. He then continues:-" the world I regard is myself; it is the microcosm of my own frame that I cast mine eye on: for the other, I use it but like my globe, and turn it round sometimes for my recreation." Here the perspicuity of the sentence is no doubt disturbed, in some degree, by quaintness and affectation; but we can still see our way, and arrive, I think, at a pure meaning, as devoid of overweening vanity as anything in the whole work. He is clearly not contrasting himself, Thomas Browne, with other men, and the general frame-work of society, often, in conventional phraseology, termed "the world"-the parallel lies. between man, as an intellectual being, and that stupendous elemental structure which he inhabits; and he prefers, he observes, contemplating himself, (as that representative of human nature which he could most conveniently command) to the investigation of those laws which regulate the movements and preserve the existence of the universe. So far there is no remarkable display of personal vanity. Socrates, the wisest at once and humblest of men, pursued the same course, and probably was the model which Browne, when he wrote the above, had in his mind.

But the greatest pinch is in what immediately follows: "Men," he says, "that look upon my outside, perusing only my condition and fortunes, do err in my altitude, for I am above Atlas's shoulders." The first person singular sounds, it must be acknowledged, rather egotistically in this sentence; and Digby accordingly, with all the indignation of a modest man, exclaims—“ Aha! then, we have you here, Sir Esculapius!- Above Atlas's shoulders!'-On what, I pray, will you bestow the name of vanity, and that too the most egregious, if this be not such ?"

In criticism, however, as in every thing else, it is useful sometimes to adopt the Chinese maxim of "slow and sure." Perhaps our Galenian, if allowed the privilege of interpreting his own thoughts, may be found not to be speaking, in this place, of himself as an individual at all-not as " hic homo," but as "homo." No doubt the meaning of the passage, considered by itself, is just what Digby understood it to be. But what book could bear to be judged of on this principle? In another passage of the " Religio Medici" we find these words—“ I do confess myself to be an atheist." What, then! was Sir Thomas Browne an unbeliever in God? Not in the least:-the divinity in respect of whom he confessed himself to be an atheist, was Mammon, the object of the world's idolatry. Nay, in the Scriptures themselves we find this atheistical position" There is no God!" And how comes it there? Very naturally,-" The fool hath said in his heart- there is no God.""

Let us, above all things, be just in our decisions, and where we err, let it be on the charitable side. Upon the whole, however, there appears to me, in the matter in hand, greater difficulty in going wrong than right, since we have but to peruse the context with attention, to be satisfied that Sir Thomas Browne is not speaking in his own person, but as man, as a being created in the image of God, placed a little lower than the angels, and crowned with glory and honour." Let us examine the whole passage, which is full of eloquence, and of piety no less. "The earth," he observes, "is a point, not only in respect of the heavens above us, but of that heavenly and celestial part within us.” It is quite clear that these words carry us beyond the circle of egotism, and merge all idea of individual vanity in the great ocean of human nature. "That mass of flesh that circumscribes me, limits not my mind; that surface that tells the heavens it hath an end, cannot persuade me I have any." This is the exaltation of man as a species, the soaring holy ambition of the whole race, borrowing the voice of one of its members to express that " yearning after immortality," which constitutes one of the strongest proofs that such is our destiny. "I take my circle to be above three hundred and sixty. Though the number of the arc do measure my body, it comprehendeth not my mind. Whilst I study to find how I am a microcosm, a little world, I find myself something more than the great." Yet not himself only, but all men. In the pride of this

passage the author intended that Digby should participate. His design was to compliment both him, and you, and me; and to remind us that the soul which animates our frames, is a substance far nobler than any with the accidents of which our senses make us acquainted. And this he expresses in language of surpassing grandeur. "There is surely a piece of divinity in us, something that was before the elements, and owes no homage unto the sun." But this is not all. "Nature tells me I am the image of God, as well as Scripture: he that understands not thus much, hath not his introduction, or first lesson, and is yet to begin the alphabet of man!"

Can there now be any doubt that Sir Kenelm Digby has misinterpreted the language of our author, setting that down as an ebullition of personal vanity, which was designed to be a kind of apotheosis of human nature? But the reader will, perhaps, remark, that considering the rapidity with which the critic's observations were written-he allowed himself barely twenty-four hours both to read and criticise,—it is matter of less astonishment that he should have fallen into some few misapprehensions, than that he should have been guilty of no more. To this I can make no other reply, than that his haste, being of his own choosing, was highly reprehensible. For, by his own confession, no one could be more thoroughly convinced than himself that the book ranked not among those which "he who runs may read." Besides, though originally