Both

but drawn with some shadow and perspective. judgment and sympathy enter into their composition, and they come much nearer to being living creations than other examples of the type.

VII

The best exponents of familiar prose in the first half of the seventeenth century, of prose in which observation and reflection are shot through with the colors of personality, are not to be found in the ranks of the essayists so-called. A technical distinction, however, which excludes Robert Burton or Sir Thomas Browne or Jeremy Taylor from discussion in this connection sacrifices literary realities to accidents of nomenclature. It must be recognized that on the side of form the essay is but loosely, if at all, definable; what differentiates it as a literary category is a certain community of purpose, of substance, and of manner. Whenever the personality of the writer constitutes in an obvious sense the significant element in a piece of prose, when students of human nature, thinkers and dreamers with no special philosophic system, make original reflections on life, whatever their form, they belong in spirit with the essayists. The authors of the "Anatomy of Melancholy" and of the "Religio Medici" are more authentically of the family of Charles Lamb than is either Bacon or Cowley.

The "Anatomy of Melancholy" at first imposes by its appearance of method. There are not wanting students who admire its elaborate structure of divisions and subdivisions and the genuine erudition of the book. The first two parts especially are, according to the standard of the seventeenth century, scientific; in the analysis of the causes, symptoms, prognostics, and cures

V

V

of melancholy, Burton makes use of all the contemporary knowledge of medicine and psychology, though the mere curiousness of phenomena interests him more than any serious motive. Yet it cannot be but that he had some serious motive in compiling such a mass of special, professional knowledge as is here contained; for readers seeking entertainment would not even in the seventeenth century have plodded and toiled over this arid expanse for the sake of the occasional glimpses of humor and fancy with which it is relieved. Fuller's seemingly cold reference to the "Anatomy" as a "philological" work is suggestive of at least one phase of contemporary feeling toward it. A sly ironic wink every now and then, a straightforward satiric thrust, a page of flowing description and charming landscape, even a discursive chapter like the amazing Digression of Air, giving a complete panaroma of the state of science, or the wholly delectable section of Exercise, redolent of "woods, groves, gardens, walks"-these, which are among the pleasantest things in the entire book, are accessible only to one who is not afraid to struggle through the jungle of dead and forgotten learning in which they lie scattered. It is fit pastime only for Dr. Johnson. But whatever Burton may have intended his work to be in the beginning, the design of entertainment or popular morality prevails in the later sections. Modern readers find more to amuse them in the discussion of Love Melancholy, where Burton's exuberant memory overflows in recollections from all the amorous poets and story-tellers who ever wrote, indifferent whether profit or pleasure be the result. It is a load of literary treasure, and under it his neat system palpably breaks down. But where Burton emerges triumphantly as an essayist is in the address of Democritus to the Reader, which stands outside the

framework. Here there is nothing to obstruct the free expression of his natural humor. Here in the attitude of the laughing philosopher, secure in his sheltered cloister, "a mere spectator of other men's fortunes and adventures, and how they act their parts," he surveys with widely-roving eye the folly and madness of mankind—the madness of individuals and of nations, the madness of rulers, of philosophers, of lovers, and of scholars, of young and old, and concludes in short that the whole world is mad and should be put in Bedlam with Rabelais for physician. His materials are as inexhaustible as the published records of civilization, his method, here as elsewhere, is to heap up the sayings of other writers and to compose from them a mosaic, bearing the stamp of his individual genius-"omne meum, nihil meum, 'tis all mine and none mine." With a mirthful irony he illustrates while he enumerates all the barbarous traits of his manner, "Doric dialect, extemporanean style, tautologies, apish imitations, a rhapsody of rags gathered from several dunghills, excrements of authors, toys and fopperies confusedly tumbled out, without art, invention, judgment, wit, learning, harsh, raw, rude, fantastical, absurd, insolent, indiscreet, ill-composed, indigested, vain, scurrile, idle, dull, and dry." There are times when he forgets his authorities and particularizes his satire out of his more direct knowledge. At any rate, he gives that impression when he draws his lively picture of England's natural blessings spoiled by the follies of its inhabitants and dismisses the wish for a reformation as vain, absurd, and ridiculous. All must be as it is, "desinet homines tum demum stultescere quando esse desinent, so long as they can wag their beards, they will play the knaves and fools." However, as if to give emphasis to the good-nature of his censure, he turns upon his

thought and projects a Utopia of his own, in describing which he not only shows his appreciation of remediable evils but shines in comparison with other Utopists by tempering his excellent suggestions for regulating laws, customs, and manners, with a sense of humor which is in this case equivalent to common sense. He strikes, too, a very modern note in his reference to "gouty benefactors, who, when by fraud and rapine they have extorted all their lives, oppressed whole provinces, societies, etc., give something to pious uses, build a satisfactory alms-house, school or bridge, etc., at their last end.”

A writer who ranges over an extensive field of human interests touching on innumerable points in his way, must, if he comments with any freedom or candor, leave the impress of his mind upon his work. That Burton revealed his originality both in planning and writing the "Anatomy of Melancholy" does not require argument, but to say as M. Jusserand does, that he "exposes the inside of his mind in as bold and free a manner as Montaigne," is to suggest a doubtful and even misleading analogy. Burton has imparted the color of his mind to his literary labor, as every original writer does whether he be historian or novelist or essayist, but in what sense can it be said that he has exposed the inside of his mind? We have very little detail about the facts of his life, whereas Montaigne provides materials for an ample biography; we know very little that distinguishes Burton's views on intellectual and moral questions, while Montaigne presents his opinions with so much psychological circumstance that they seem distinguished even when they are conventional. The legend of Burton's personality (the obvious and superficial result of his book) was made up of melancholy, enormous learning, and eccentricity, the three features combining harmoniously in the story

that he took his own life in order to justify his horoscope. If Burton had a deeper inward experience, he has kept it carefully from view; what he exposes is the outside of his mind. An omnivorous literary taste, an undiscriminating, self-contradictory sympathy with every kind of character, unfailing good humor, irony often mocking itself, and spontaneous oddity of expression stamp upon the "Anatomy of Melancholy" a distinctiveness which is not made more intelligible by any comparison with Montaigne.

An Englishman who does provoke a parallel with the great French essayist is Sir Thomas Browne. He does so by resemblances in unusual turns of thought, ideas so fanciful and original that it seems scarcely credible that they should have arisen independently in two minds. He does so likewise by his manner of referring to himself and describing the condition of his soul. Yet it is just as well to accept his disclaimer of conscious borrowing from Montaigne and to look upon the similarities as the result of a fortuitous coincidence. For the differences of motive and of literary attitude are of a fundamental character. There is no reason for doubting Sir Thomas's declaration that the "Religio Medici" was an exercise directed to himself rather than an example or rule unto any other, having an obvious relationship to the Meditation and Resolve; and the many personal features in the treatise are alleged by him as proof that it was not intended for the public. Writing a religious apologia, he could not well help expressing himself in personal terms.

Sir Thomas Browne counts the world "a place not to live, but to die in," and thereby defines sharply the line that divides him from Montaigne and his preOccupation with worldly conduct. Montaigne is a realistic psychologist examining with careful eye the