ce of iron weighing two and a-half ounces,
which, strange to say, it could not digest. It soon afterwards died 'of
a soden,' either from the severity of the weather or from the peculiar
nature of its diet.

In one well-known case Sir Thomas's peculiar theories received a more
unfortunate application; he contributed by his evidence to the death of
the witches tried by Hale in 1664; and one could wish that in this case
his love of the wonderful had been more checked by his sense of humour.

The fact that he was knighted by Charles II. in 1671 is now memorable
only for Johnson's characteristic remark. The lexicographer's love of
truth and loyalty to his pet monarch struggle with each other in the
equivocal compliment to Charles's virtue in rewarding excellence 'with
such honorary distinctions at least as cost him nothing.' The good
doctor died in 1682, in the seventy-seventh year of age, and met his
end, as we are assured, in the spirit of his own writings. 'There is,'
he admirably says, 'but one comfort left, that, though it be in the
power of the weakest arm to take away life, it is not in the strongest
to deprive us of death.' Most men, for one reason or another, have at
times been 'half in love with easeful death.' Sir Thomas gives his view
more fully in another passage, in which he says, with his usual quaint
and eloquent melancholy, 'When I take a full view and circle of myself,
without this reasonable moderator and equal piece of justice, death, I
do conceive myself the miserablest person extant. Were there not another
life that I hope for, all the vanities of this world should not entreat
a moment's breath from me. Could the devil work my belief to imagine I
could never die, I could not outlive that very thought. I have so abject
a conceit of this common way of existence, this retaining to the sun and
elements, I cannot think this to be a man, or to have according to the
dignity of humanity. In expectation of a better, I can with patience
embrace this life, yet, in my best meditations, do often defy death.'

What, after all, one is inclined to ask, is the secret of the strange
charm of Sir Thomas's style? Will you be kind enough to give us the old
doctor's literary prescription, that we may produce the same effects at
will? In what proportions shall we mingle humour, imagination, and
learning? How are we to select the language which will be the fittest
vehicle for the thought? or rather, for the metaphor is a litt