CHAPTER VII.
I have a fear that my readers were not overmuch interested in what I had to say of that witty Dr. Thomas Fuller who wrote about the Worthies of England, and who pressed his stalwart figure (for he was of the bigness of our own Phillips Brooks—corporeal and mental) through many a London crowd that came to his preachments. Yet his worthiness is something larger than that which comes from his story of the Worthies.
Sir William Temple, too, is a name that can hardly have provoked much enthusiasm, unless among those who love gardens, and who recall with rural unction his horticultural experiences at Sheen, and at Moor Park in Surrey. But that kindly, handsome, meditative, eccentric doctor of Norwich—Sir Thomas Browne—was of a different and more lovable quality, the memory of which I hope may find lodgement in the reader’s heart. His Religio Medici, if not his Hydriotaphia, should surely find place in every well-appointed library.
As for John Dryden—do what you like with his books; but do not forget that he left behind him writings that show all the colors and reflect all the follies and faiths of the days in which he lived—plays with a portentous pomp of language—lyrics that were most melodious and most unsavory—satire that flashed and cut like a sword, and odes that had the roll and swell of martial music in them.
John Locke if less known, was worthier; and we have reason, which I tried to show, for thinking of him as a pure-hearted, level-headed, high-minded man—an abiding honor to his race.