r it, than that which cometh with
pugnacity and contention."[226] The threatened agitation _against
libraries_ must have caused Bodley's cheek to tingle.

Let us now turn from the scholastic to the men of the world, and we
shall see what sort of notion these critics entertained of the
philosophy of Bacon. Chamberlain writes, "This week the lord chancellor
hath set forth his new work, called _Instauratio Magna_, or a kind of
_Novum Organum_ of all philosophy. In sending it to the king, he wrote
that he wished his majesty might be so long in reading it as he hath
been in composing and polishing it, which is well near thirty years. I
have read no more than the bare title, and am not greatly encouraged by
Mr. Cuffe's judgment,[227] who having long since perused it, gave this
censure, that a fool could not have written such a work, and a wise man
would not." A month or two afterwards we find that "the king cannot
forbear sometimes in reading the lord chancellor's last book to say,
that it is like _the peace of God, that surpasseth all understanding_."

Two years afterwards the same letter-writer proceeds with another
literary paragraph about Bacon. "This lord busies himself altogether
about _books_, and hath set out two lately, _Historia Ventorum_ and _De
Vita et Morte_, with promise of more. I have yet seen neither of them,
because I have not leisure; but if the Life of Henry the Eighth (the
Seventh), which they say he is about, might _come out after his own
manner_ (meaning his Moral Essays), I should find time and means enough
to read it." When this history made its appearance, the same writer
observes, "My Lord Verulam's history of Henry the Seventh is come forth;
I have not read much of it, but they say it is a very pretty book."[228]

Bacon, in his vast survey of human knowledge, included even its humbler
provinces, and condescended to form a collection of apophthegms: his
lordship regretted the loss of a collection made by Julius Caesar, while
Plutarch indiscriminately drew much of the dregs. The wits, who could
not always comprehend his plans, ridiculed the sage. I shall now quote a
contemporary poet, whose works, for by their size they may assume that
distinction, were never published. A Dr. Andrews wasted a sportive pen
on fugitive events; but though not always deficient in humour and wit,
such is the freedom of his writings, that they will not often admit of
quotation. The following is indeed but a strange pun on