look aside from him without loss; neither can his readers remit their attention for a sentence, or for a clause of a sentence, without missing a portion of the thought. We do not speak merely of the vividness and pregnancy of the expression; that is another thing. What we mean is, that the flow of the reasoning or reflection never pauses, never diminishes. True or false, one new thought, one new view succeeds another as fast as it is possible to exhibit them. Nor is this true only of the Essays, where the style is more formally aphoristic and economical. His other writings are less pointed and epigrammatic; but the packing of the thoughts is nearly as close everywhere. Every word indicates a working, teeming mind. Much of what is said, indeed, may be merely ingenious; some portion of the abundance may be even incumbering, and would, we may think, be better away; but there, at any rate, it is, never-failing and seemingly inexhaustible, at the least the richest intermixture of wisdom, fancy, and ingenuity in succession, often a combination and interfusion of all the three.

Then there is the uncommonness and characteristic air of nearly all the thoughts. It might be supposed that after any true thing has once been said, and generally felt and accepted, it would pass into common property, and cease to be recognisable as the thought of an individual. But it does not so happen. An original thought never loses its stamp of originality. If it has been struck out in an illiterate and unrecording age, it spreads indeed everywhere among the people, but it retains its distinctive shape of a peculiar utterance, a proverb, and, after having been repeated for a thousand years, it shows like a flash of fire among other words every time it is used. It is the same with an original thought in a book. It always remains new, fresh, and striking. A mere scientific truth may become a com. monplace; it is something entirely separate from the mind of the discoverer; but a happily expressed thought is a fragment of the mind which first gave it such expression, and will always continue to be something unlike hat any other mind would have produced. Take any

discovery in astronomy: we could not say from anything that is known of the minds of Copernicus, or Galileo, or Tycho Brahe, or Kepler, from which of them it proceeded, nor does the mention of it in ordinary circumstances recal its author; no part of its importance, no part of its beauty or its life lies in its connection with him it has no flavour or character of any kind which it has taken from him, or which makes any likeness between him and it. He has thrown it forth as the tissue is thrown forth by the loom; a moral saying is more like the grape, that is ever racy of the soil where it grew. Thus, a characteristic thought of Bacon's cannot be taken possession of by any one else and made his own; in the change of the Baconian form or expression, the thought itself would be changed; it must therefore always retain that peculiarity of aspect which marks it as his, and which will keep it for ever as distinguishable and as striking as it was at first. A discovery made by Kepler might easily, if we were to judge only by the intellectual characters of the two, be attributed to Copernicus; but a verse of Homer's or a sentence of Bacon's will usually, like a picture by Raphael, attest their own paternity.

Bacon's manner of writing has been described by his chaplain and first biographer in the following terms:"In the composing of his books, he did rather drive at a masculine and clear expression than at any fineness or affectation of phrases, and would often ask if the meaning were expressed plainly enough; as being one that accounted words to be but subservient or ministerial to matter and not the principal. And, if his style were polite, it was because he could do no otherwise. Neither was he given to any light conceits, or descanting upon words, but did ever purposely and industriously avoid them; for he held such things to be but digressions or diversions from the scope intended, and to derogate from the weight and dignity of the style." What is here said of his avoidance of all mere verbal conceits is true, and the fact merits especial attention as notably discriminating the wit of Bacon from that of every other English writer eminent for that quality in his age. Pro

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bably nothing resembling a pun, or any quibble of that class, is to be found in all that he has written. Nor does he torture thoughts more than words; having once given the thought full and fitting expression, he lets it alone, and passes on to the next. Yet the characteristic. of his writing is pre-eminently wit, understood in the largest and highest sense, as the perception and exhibition of things in their less obvious relations. Upon no topic is he ever trite, or a repeater of what has been said by others; he cannot quote à verse of Scripture without giving it an interpretation of his own. And yet the peculiar view that he takes of everything never, or very rarely, appears forced or unnatural; if it be the last that would occur to an ordinary thinker, it looks as if it were the first that had occurred to him.

Much of this comes of the real originality of Bacon's manner of thinking; but the effect is also in part owing to his great oratorical skill or art of expression. The manner of his writing is as striking and uncommon as the matter. Or rather, we should say, the arraying and apparelling of his thoughts is as brilliant as the thoughts themselves. He has no passion; but no man had ever more of the mere ingenuity and fancy that belong to eloquence. His style is all over colour and imagery; so much so, indeed, that this sort of enrichment may be said frequently to enter into its substance, and to constitute his thoughts rather than to clothe and decorate them. Metaphors, similitudes, and analogies make up a great part of his reasoning,- -are constantly brought in for proof and argument as well as for illustration. Not that this forms any objection to the force or soundness of the reasoning. In moral exposition, which is totally different in its nature from mathematical demonstration-as different as a piece of music is from the multiplication table-what is at all times principally wanted, almost the one thing needful, is the spirit and pulse of life; if that be present in sufficient strength, the manner in which it shows itself, or the source whence it is obtained, is of little consequence. Consider what all such exposition is. It rarely or never takes the form of pure syllogism

or absolutely necessary deduction; its nature does not admit of its doing so; it never can, except perhaps for a step or two now and then by a process of forcing or torture, be reduced to that form. What is called moral reasoning consists, in addition to the historical statement of the necessary facts, mainly of such excitement addressed to the reader or hearer as enables and impels him to supply every thing else for himself to see the subject in the same light in which the writer or speaker sees it, and to come to the same conclusions. There are various ways, we repeat, of producing this effect, according to the circumstances of the case. Almost the only position that can be universally affirmed is, that the thing cannot be done in the manner of a mathematical demonstration; in moral questions that mode of reasoning is at once powerless and, for any continued effort, impossible. It may be accomplished by mere artifice of narration; by the clear exhibition of the subject in the proper points of view; by passionate declamation; by invective; by ridicule; by epigrams and witticisms; and often, as effectually as in any other way, or more so than in any other, by ingenious analogies and similitudes and other fanciful illustrations. None of these modes of exposition, it is true, are in a strict sense logically conclusive; but any one is nearly as much so as any other; and at any rate no methods more purely logical are possible. An extended concatenation of perfect syllogisms upon any moral subject would be a mere string of truisms and inanities.

We do not admit, therefore, that there is any thing false or hollow in Bacon's manner of reasoning, because he deals largely in figurative illustrations. When in the above essay he represents truth as a kind of daylight, and falsehood or fiction as a candlelight, we contend that he expounds an idea and impresses a conviction as distinctly and completely as could have been done by the soberest and most colourless statement. Nay, much more distinctly and effectually; for there is a life and power in the figure that the plain statement would not have had, awakening a corresponding life and power of

conception in the mind of the reader. Nor is an imaginative manner of thinking, or a figurative style, inconsistent with soundness of judgment or correctness of exposition. The highest of all truths have been expounded poetically. Many of the highest truths cannot be conceived at all except imaginatively. A mind of

imaginative capacity is in the region of thought and reasoning to a mind without imagination what in the world of sense the man who sees is to him who is blind. The latter may have a tolerably correct notion of any thing he can touch and handle; but the former alone can embrace the grand panorama of nature.

The question, however, still remains in how far Bacon is a philosopher or sage, as well as an orator-what is the real amount and character of the truth and wisdom contained in his writings. To what extent are his views subtle and profound? to what extent only specious? Ingenuity, fancy, eloquence, fertility of invention, a never-failing flow of thought of one kind or another, even singular sagacity and insight within a certain range, will be denied him by none; but with all this the deepest penetration and widest compass of vision may still be wanting. Whether or no such be the case, the actual examination of his works must decide.

The Second Essay, entitled Of Death,' had appeared in the edition of 1612. We will give the greater part of it:

Men fear death as children fear to go in the dark; and as that natural fear in children is increased with tales, so is the other. Certainly, the contemplation of death as the wages of sin and passage to another world, is holy and religious; but the fear of it as a tribute due unto nature is weak. Yet in religious meditations there is sometimes mixture of vanity and of superstition. You shall read in some of the friars' books of Mortification, that a man should think with himself what the pain is, if he have but his fingers' end pressed or tortured, and thereby imagine what the pains of death are when the whole body is corrupted and dissolved; when many times death passeth with less pain than the torture of a limb: for the most vital parts are not the quickest of sense. And by him that