he had nothing to envy Socrates, in regard to whom the good Phedrus expresses the magnanimous sentiment: Insure me his fame, and I will not shrink from his death. The envy which followed me living shall absolve me when dead.'"

At another time he says: "Since completing my great work I feel that I have become a new man. I am no longer inclined to declaim against the bad taste of the age, which, in refusing me the place I demanded, has given me occasion to compose the new science. Shall I say it? I may deceive myself, but I do not wish to deceive myself. The composition of this work has animated me with a heroic spirit which lifts me above the fear of death and all the calumnies of my rivals. When I think of the judgment of God which rewards genius with the esteem of the wise, I feel myself seated on an adamantine cliff." Frequently in his poems he opens his inmost heart, and consoles himself for lack of honor and love with the thought of his great discoveries, "penetrating in the abyss of wisdom to the eternal laws by which humanity is governed," "all nations together forming one city, founded and ruled by God himself"; and also with the thought of posthumous fame. How beautiful are these words, breathed in his pining solitude: "My dear country has refused me everything. But I respect and revere her. A severe mother, who never caresses her son or presses him to her bosom, is none the less honored. In the thought of the unrecognized benefits I have conferred on her, I already find noble consolation."

Át last "the unfortunate Vico," to use his own words, "broken down by age, wrongs, fatigues, and physical sufferings," welcomed the grave as a sweet shelter from all storms. His fame is still growing brighter, as reflected in lofty minds, congenial with his own, from generation to generation. No gentle spirit who has learned to appreciate his quick and tender genius, the unkindness and desertion he suffered in his time, can read the following apostrophe from one of his earlier poems without a quickening heart-beat, without longing to call him back to receive now, so late, the meed he merited then. "Pure and

tranquil life, calm and innocent pleasures, glory and treasure won by merit, celestial peace of mind, and that which is dearest to my heart, the love of which love is the price, delicious reciprocity of sincere faith, sweet images of happiness, although but to aggravate my pain, still, come again!"

DESCARTES.

THE great Descartes, the pollen of whose thoughts, borne on all the breezes of inquiry, fertilized the philosophy of Europe for two centuries, is a fine example of one who, in spite of brilliant accomplishments, extended reputation, strong affections, and courteous manners, was made essentially a solitary man by his intense devotion to the discovery of truth. He repudiated traditional authority and prejudice, and with a sublime force and heroism of soul threw himself back on common sense and a sceptical openness and freedom of search for the reality of things. There are four ways in which most persons arrive at their various degrees of wisdom: self-evident notions, the experience of the senses, the conversation of other men, the reading of books. There have been, Descartes says, in all ages, great minds who have tried to find a fifth road to wisdom, incomparably higher and surer than the other four, namely, the search of first causes and true principles from which may be deduced the reasons of all that can be known.

On this fifth road few mightier travellers than he have ever trod. Those who have passed him since were indebted to his guidance. He dared to strip off all past beliefs that he might not be encumbered or misled. "But," he says, "like one walking alone and in the dark, I resolved to proceed so slowly and with such circumspection that if I did not advance far, I would at least guard against falling." Regarding "the supreme good as nothing more than the knowledge of truth through its first causes," he allowed nothing to interfere with his pursuit of it.

But his kind temper, good taste and prudence did not

disarm the fears and foes awakened by the boldness of his speculations. Stratagems and dangers surrounded him. Cousin says, "After having run round the world much, studying men on a thousand occasions, on the battle-field, and at court, he concluded that he must live a recluse. He became a hermit in Holland." Eight years later he writes, "Here, in the midst of a great crowd actively engaged in business and more careful of their own affairs than curious about those of others, I have been enabled to live without being deprived of any of the conveniences to be had in the most populous cities, and yet as solitary and as retired as in the midst of the most remote deserts." At another time he says, “I shall always hold myself more obliged to those through whose favor I am permitted to enjoy my retirement without interruption than to any one who might offer me the highest earthly preferments." There is no reason to doubt the sincerity of this declaration; yet there is another side to the truth. For when Queen Christina paid him honoring attentions, and invited him to her court at Stockholm, he went thither and occupied an academic post. His first passion was the pursuit of truth; his second, a love of the esteem of his fellow men. His own frank words give a pleasing proof of this. "My disposition making me unwilling to be esteemed different from what I really am, I thought it necessary by all means to render myself worthy of the reputation accorded to me.

This desire constrained me to remove from all those places where interruption from any of my acquaintances was possible, and to give myself up to studies." There was no misanthropic ingredient in his isolation. Yet, once or twice, a little soreness, a little petulance at the neglect of the public, at the lack of the co-operation he needed, escapes him. "Seeing that the experiments requisite for the verification of my reasonings would demand an expenditure to which the resources of a private individual are inadequate, and as I have no ground to expect public aid, I believe I ought for the future to content myself with studying for my own instruction, and posterity will excuse me if I fail to labor for them." But if, contrary to

his own opinion, the ambition of Descartes in relation to society and mankind was superior to his fruition, so that some dissatisfaction resulted, it did not sour or exasperate him. On the whole, he kept his moral equipoise well and sweetly. He has himself indicated his three great reserves of happiness.

First, his employment itself. "The brutes, which have only their bodies to conserve, are continually occupied in seeking sources of nourishment; but men, of whom the chief part is the mind, ought to make the search after wisdom their principal care; for wisdom is the true nourishment of the mind." Although I have been accustomed to think lowly enough of myself, and although when I look with the eye of a philosopher at the varied courses and pursuits of mankind at large, I find scarcely one which does not appear vain and useless, I nevertheless derive the highest satisfaction from the progress I conceive myself to have already made in the search after truth, and cannot help entertaining such expectations of the future as to believe that if, among the occupations of men as men, there is any one really excellent and important, it is that which I have chosen."

Second, intercourse with the highest minds of all times and countries. "The perusal of excellent books is, as it were, to enjoy an interview with the noblest men of past ages, who have written them, and even a studied interview in which are discovered to us only their choicest thoughts."

And thirdly, the subjection of his wishes to his condition. "My maxim was always to endeavor to conquer myself rather than fortune, and change my desires rather than the order of the world, and, in general, to accustom myself to the persuasion that, except our own thoughts, there is nothing absolutely in our power. Thus we learn to regret nothing which is unchangeable, desire nothing which is unattainable. I confess there is need of prolonged discipline and repeated meditation to accustom the mind to view all objects in this light; and I believe that in this chiefly consisted the secret of the power of such philosophers as in former times were enabled to rise

superior to the influence of fortune, and, amid suffering and poverty, enjoy happiness which their gods might have envied."

HOBBES.

THE famous philosopher of Malmesbury is an example of the difficulty a man of great intellect and proud sensitiveness experiences in reconciling himself to the disparity between his own estimate of himself and the estimate set on him by his unappreciative neighbors. He was one of the most independent and powerful thinkers, one of the most clear and energetic writers, that have ever appeared in England. Macaulay even calls him "the most acute and vigorous of human intellects." He lived to the age of ninety-two, devoting his great endowments to a course of earnest thought resulting in unpopular conclusions embodied in unpopular works. He was misunderstood, misrepresented, misvalued, ill treated.

Although haughty and irascible, he had many good qualities, which drew the interest of numerous distinguished contemporaries to him. Three successive Earls of Devonshire patronized him, thought highly of him, gave him a home, with slight duties and great leisure. He was a good hater, and evidently relished despising the ignorant herd and dealing bitter blows against his enemies. He comforted himself for his unpopularity by cherishing friendly relations and correspondence with the chief great men of his time, such as Bacon, Harvey, Descartes, Ben Jonson, Aubrey, Clarendon ; and by nour ishing his keen sense of his superiority to the vulgar crowds of people. "What proof of madness," he asks, "can there be greater than to clamor, strike, and throw stones at our best friends? Yet this is less than the multitude will do." His writings frequently betray how warmly he welcomed every notice from others calculated to soothe and confirm his self-estimate, how angrily he resented whatever ruffled or tended to lower it. He speaks of one of his lesser writings as little in bulk, and yet "great enough if men count well for great." Again