no man truly knows Christ but he that keepeth his commandments, it is much to be suspected that many of us which pretend to light have a thick and gloomy darkness within over-spreading our souls.

There be now many large volumes and discourses written concerning Christ, thousands of controversies discussed, infinite problems determined concerning his divinity, humanity, union of both together, and what not, so that our bookish Christians, that have all their religion in writings and papers, think they are now completely furnished with all kind of knowledge concerning Christ; and when they see all their leaves lying about them, they think they have a goodly stock of knowledge and truth, and cannot possibly miss of the way to heaven; as if religion were nothing but a little book-craft, a mere paper-skill.

But if S. John's rule here be good, we must not judge of our knowing of Christ by our skill in books and papers, but by our keeping of his commandments. And that, I fear, will discover many of us (notwithstanding all this light which we boast of round about us) to have nothing but Egyptian darkness within our hearts.

The vulgar sort think that they know Christ enough out of their creeds and catechisms and confessions of faith; and if they have but a little acquainted themselves with these, and like parrots conned the words of them, they doubt not but that they are sufficiently instructed in all the mysteries of the kingdom of heaven. Many of the more learned, if they can but wrangle and dispute about Christ, imagine themselves to be grown great proficients in the school of Christ.

The greatest part of the world, whether learned or unlearned, think that there is no need of purging and purifying of their hearts for the right knowledge of Christ and his gospel; but though their lives be never so wicked, their hearts never so foul within, yet they may know Christ sufficiently out of their treatises and discourses, out of their meer systems and bodies of divinity: which I deny not to be useful in a subordinate way; although our Saviour prescribeth his disciples another method to come to the right knowledge of divine truths, by doing of God's will; He that will do my father's will (saith he) shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of God. He is a true Christian indeed, not he that is only book-taught, but he that is God-taught; he that hath an unction from the Holy One (as our Apostle calleth it), that teacheth him all things; he that hath the spirit of Christ within him, that searcheth out the deep things of God for as no man knoweth the things of a man save the spirit of a man which is in him, even so the things of God knoweth no man but the Spirit of God.

Ink and paper can never make us Christians, can never beget a new nature, a living principle in us; can never form Christ or any true notions of spiritual things in our hearts. The Gospel, that new law which Christ delivered to the world, it is not merely a dead letter without us, but a quickening spirit within us. Cold theorems and maxims, dry and jejune disputes, lean syllogistical reasonings, could never yet of themselves beget the least glimpse of true heavenly light, the least sap of saving knowledge in any heart. All this is but the groping of the poor dark spirit of man after truth, to find it out with his own endeavours, and feel it with his own cold and benumbed hands. Words and syllables, which are but dead things, cannot possibly convey the living notions of heavenly truths to us. The secret mysteries of a divine

life, of a new nature, of Christ formed in our hearts, they cannot be written or spoken, language and expressions cannot reach them; neither can they be ever truly understood, except the soul itself be kindled from within, and awakened into the life of them. A painter that would draw a rose, though he may flourish some likeness of it in figure and colour, yet he can never paint the scent and fragrancy; or if he would draw a flame, he cannot put a constant heat into his colours; he cannot make his pencil drop a sound, as the echo in the epigram mocks at him --Si vis similem pingere, pinge sonum. All the skill of cunning artizans and mechanicks cannot put a principle of life into a statue of their own making. Neither are we able to inclose in words and letters the life, soul, and essence of any spiritual truths, and, as it were, to incorporate it in them.

Some philosophers have determined that apérn is not didakтov, virtue cannot be taught by any certain rules or precepts. Men and books may propound some directions to us, that may set us in such a way of life and practice as in which we shall at last find it within ourselves, and be experimentally acquainted with it; but they cannot teach it us like a mechanick art or trade. No, surely, there is a spirit in man; and the inspiration of the Almighty giveth understanding. But we shall not meet with this spirit any where but in the way of obedi ence the knowledge of Christ and the keeping of his commandments must always go together, and be mutual causes of one another.

Two Atheist Arguments.

And lastly, the topick of evils in general is insisted upon by them, not those which are called culpæ, evils of fault (for that is a thing which the Democritick Atheists utterly explode in the genuine sense of it), but the evils of pain and trouble, which they dispute concerning after this manner. The supposed Deity and maker of the world was either willing to abolish all evils, but not able; or he was able but not willing; or thirdly, he was neither willing nor able; or else lastly, he was both able and willing. This latter is the only thing that answers fully to the notion of a God. Now, that the supposed creator of all things was not thus both able and willing to abolish all evils is plain, because then there would have been no evils at all left. Wherefore since there is such a deluge of evils overflowing all, it must needs be that either he was willing and not able to remove them, and then he was impotent; or else he was able and not willing, and then he was envious; or lastly, he was neither able nor willing, and then he was both impotent and envious.

In the twelfth place, the Atheists further dispute in this manner. If the world were made by any Deity, then it would be governed by a providence; and if there were any providence, it must appear in human affairs. But here it is plain that all is Tohu and Bohu, chaos and confusion; things happening alike to all, to the wise and foolish, religious and impious, virtuous and vicious. (For these names the Atheist cannot chuse but make use of, though by taking away natural morality they really destroy the things.) From whence it is concluded that all things float up and down, as they are agitated and driven by the tumbling billows of careless fortune and chance. The impieties of Dionysius, his scoffing abuses of religion, and whatsoever was then sacred or worship'd under the notion of a God, were most notorious; and yet it is

observed that he fared never a jot the worse for it. Hunc nec Olympius Jupiter fulmine percussit, nec Æsculapius misero diuturnoque morbo tabescentem interemit; verum in suo lectulo mortuus, in Tympanidis rogum illatus est, eamque potestatem, quam ipse per scelus nactus erat, quasi justam & legitimam hæreditatis loco tradidit: Neither did Jupiter Olympius strike him with a thunderbolt, nor Æsculapius inflict any languishing disease upon him; but he died in his bed, and was honourably interred, and that power which he had wickedly acquired, he transmitted as a just and lawful inheritance to his posterity. And Diogenes the Cynick, though much a Theist, could not but acknowledge that Harpalus, a famous robber or pirate in those times, who, committing many villanous actions, notwithstanding lived prosperously, did thereby Testimonium dicere contra deos, bear testimony against the Gods. Though it has been objected by the Theists, and thought to be a strong argument for providence, that there were so many tables hung up in temples, the monuments of such as having prayed to the gods in storms and tempests, had escaped shipwreck; yet as Diagoras observed, Nusquam picti sunt qui naufragium fecerunt, there are no tables extant of those of them who were shipwreck'd. Wherefore it was not considered by these Theists, how many of them that prayed as well to the gods did notwithstanding suffer shipwreck; as also how many of those which never made any devotional addresses at all to any deity escaped equal dangers of storms and tempests.

Moreover, it is consentaneous to the opinion of a God, to think that thunder rattling in the clouds with thunderbolts should be the immediate significations of his wrath and displeasure: whereas it is plain that these are flung at random, and that the fury of them often lights upon the innocent, whilst the notoriously guilty escape untouched; and therefore we understand not how this can be answered by any Theists.

Tohu and Bohu are the Hebrew words rendered without form and void' in the second verse of Genesis in the Authorised Version. The Latin quotation is from Cicero, De Finibus, iii. 35

Christianity Confirmed from the Existence of Wizards and Demoniacs.

To this phænomenon of apparitions might be added those two others of magicians or wizards, dæmoniacks or Energumeni; both of these proving also the real existence of spirits, and that they are not mere phancies and imaginary inhabitants of men's brains only, but real inhabitants of the world. As also that among those spirits there are some foul, unclean, and wicked ones (though not made such by God, but by their own apostacy), which is some confirmation of the truth of Christianity, the Scripture insisting so much upon these evil dæmons or devils, and declaring it to be one design of our Saviour Christ's coming into the world, to oppose these confederate powers of the kingdom of darkness, and to rescue mankind from the thraldom and bondage thereof. for wizards and magicians, persons who associate and confederate themselves in a peculiar manner with these evil spirits, for the gratification of their own revenge, lust, ambition, and other passions; besides the Scriptures, there hath been so full an attestation given to them by persons unconcerned in all ages, that those our so confident exploders of them in this present age can hardly escape the suspicion of having some hankering towards atheism. But as for the dæmoniacks and Energumeni,

As

it hath been wondered that there should be so many of them in our Saviour's time, and hardly any, or Lon in this present age of ours. Certain it is, from the writings of Josephus, in sundry places, that the Pharischi Jews were then generally possessed with an opinio of these daμovičoμevo, dæmoniacks, men possessed w devils, or infested by them. And that this was not a me? phrase or form of speech only amongst them for perva very ill affected in their bodies may appear from hence that Josephus declares it as his opinion concerning the dæmons or devils, that they were. . . . the spirits souls of wicked men deceased getting into the bodies the living. From hence it was that the Jews, in Saviour's time, were not at all surprised with his castin out of devils, it being usual for them also to exorcise the same; an art which they pretended to have learn'd fi.1 Solomon.

See Tulloch's Rational Theology in England (1872), Martineat: Types of Ethical Theory (vol. ii. 1885), and monographs by C E. Lowrey (New York, 1884) and W. R. Scott (1891).

Sir Richard Fanshawe, poet and translator as well as royalist diplomat, was born at Ware Park, Hertfordshire, in 1608, studied at Jests College, Cambridge, and went abroad to stud languages. In the Civil War he sided with the king, and while at Oxford married in 1644 the brave and lively Anne Harrison (1625-80). 1648 he became treasurer to the navy under Prince Rupert, in 1651 was taken prisoner at Worcester. and on Cromwell's death withdrew to the Cont nent. After the Restoration he was appointed ambassador at the courts of Portugal and Spain. and died suddenly at Madrid, 26th June 1666 Fanshawe's works include The Faithfull Shepheava (1647), a translation from the Italian of Guarini's Pastor Fido; Selected Parts of Horace (1652 perhaps his happiest effort in translation; a translation into Latin verse of Fletcher's Faith' Shepherdess; The Lusiad (1655), a translation from Camoens, criticised by Mickle as harsh and unpoetical, but praised by Southey and commended by Burton; and Querer per Solo Querer (“To Love for Love's Sake'), a dramatic romance translated from the Spanish of Hurtado de Mendoza, and quoted by Charles Lamb with commendation both of play and translator. In the first scene of The Faithfull Shepheard, Linco and Silvio during a boar-hunt converse thus:

Linco. Fond youth, for a wild boar so far to roam, Whom thou must hunt with danger; when at home One's safely lodg'd!

Silvio.

Dost thou speak seriously?

How near is it?
Lin.
As thou art now to me.
Sil. Th' art mad.
Lin.

Sil.

Thou art.

In what wood doth he rest Lin. Silvio's the wood, and cruelty the beast! Sil. Mad, I was sure! Lin. To have a nymph so fair (Rather a goddess of perfections rare), Fresher and sweeter than a rose new blown, Softer and whiter than an old swan's down,

From whom there lives not at this day a swain
So proud 'mongst us but sighs and sighs in vain ;
To have, I say, this matchless paragon
By gods and men reserv'd for thee, nay thrown
Into thine arms without one sigh or tear,
And thou unworthy! to disvalue her;
Art thou not then a beast, a savage one?
Rather a senseless clod, a stock, a stone?
Sil. If not to be in love be cruelty,
Then cruelty's a vertue; nor do I
Repent but boast I lodge him in my breast

By whom I've conquer'd Love, the greater beast.
Lin. How could'st thou conquer, silly idiot,
Whom thou ne're try'dst.

We went to the Lady Honor O'Brien's; . . . she was the youngest daughter of the Earl of Thomond. There we staid three nights, the first of which I was surprised by being laid in a chamber, when, about one o'clock, I heard a voice that awakened me. I drew the curtain, and in the casement of the window I saw by the light of the moon a woman leaning into the window through the casement, in white, with red hair, and pale and ghastly complexion. She spake loud, and in a tone I had never heard, thrice, A horse!' and then with a sigh more like the wind than breath, she vanished, and to me her body looked more like a thick cloud than substance. I was so much frightened that my hair stood on end, and my night-clothes fell off. I pulled and pinched your father, who never woke during the disorder I was in; but at last was much surprised to see me in this fright, and more so when I related the story and shewed him the window opened. Neither of us slept more that night, but he entertained me with telling me how much more these apparitions were usual in this country than in England; and we concluded the cause to be the great superstition of the Irish, and the want of that knowing faith which should defend them from the power of the Devil, which he exercises among them very much. About five o'clock the lady of the house came to see us, saying she had not been in bed all night, because a cousin O'Brien of hers, whose ancestors had owned that house, had desired her to stay with him in his chamber, and that he died at two o'clock, and she said: 'I wish you to have had no disturbance, for 'tis the custom of the place, that when any of the family are dying the shape of a woman appears in the window every night till they be dead. This woman was many ages ago got with child

by the owner of this place, who murdered her in his garden, and flung her into the river under the window; but truly I thought not of it when I lodged you here, it being the best room in the house.' We made little reply to her speech, but disposed ourselves to be gone suddenly.

Domestic Diplomacy.

My husband had provided very good lodgings for us [at Bristol], and as soon as he could come home from the council, where he was at my arrival, he with all expressions of joy received me in his arms, and gave me a hundred pieces of gold, saying: 'I know thou that keeps my heart so well will keep my fortune, which from this I will ever put into thy hands as God shall bless me with increase;' and now I thought myself a perfect queen, and my husband so glorious a crown, that I more valued myself to be called by his name than born a princess; for I knew him very wise and very good, and his soul doated on me-upon which confidence I will tell you what happened. My Lady Rivers, a brave woman, and one that had suffered many thousand pounds loss for the king, and whom I had a great reverence for, and she a kindness for me as a kinswoman, in discourse she tacitly commended the knowledge of state affairs, and that some women were very happy in a good understanding thereof, as my Lady Aubigny, Lady Isabel Thynne, and divers others, and yet none was at first more capable than I; that in the night she knew there came a post from Paris from the queen, and that she would be extremely glad to hear what the queen commanded the king in order to his affairs, saying if I would ask my husband privately he would tell me what he found in the packet, and I might tell her. I, that was young and innocent, and to that day had never in my mouth 'What news?' began to think there was more inquiring into public affairs than I thought of, and that it being a fashionable thing would make me more beloved of my husband, if that had been possible, than I then When my husband returned home from council, after welcoming him, as his custom ever was he went with his handful of papers into his study for an hour or more. I followed him; he turned hastily and said : 'What wouldst thou have, my life?' I told him I heard the prince had received a packet from the queen, and I guessed it was that in his hand, and I desired to know what was in it. He smilingly replied: "My love, I will immediately come to thee; pray thee, go, for I am very busy.' When he came out of his closet, I revived my suit; he kissed me, and talked of other things. supper I would eat nothing; he as usual sat by me, and drank often to me, which was his custom, and was full of discourse to company that was at table. Going to bed, I asked again, and said I could not believe he loved me if he refused to tell me all he knew; but he answered nothing, but stopped my mouth with kisses. went to bed; I cried, and he went to sleep. Next morning early, as his custom was, he called to rise, but began to discourse with me first, to which I made no reply; he rose, came on the other side of the bed, and kissed me, and drew the curtains softly and went to court. When he came home to dinner, he presently came to me as was usual, and when I had him by the hand, I said: "Thou dost not care to see me troubled ;' to which he, taking me in his arms, answered: 'My dearest soul, nothing upon earth can afflict me like that: but when you asked me of my business, it was wholly

was.

At

So we

out of my power to satisfy thee; for my life and fortune shall be thine, and every thought of my heart in which the trust I am in may not be revealed; but my honour is my own, which I cannot preserve if I communicate the prince's affairs; and pray thee with this answer rest satisfied.' So great was his reason and goodness, that, upon consideration, it made my folly appear to me so vile, that from that day until the day of his death I never thought fit to ask him any business but what he communicated freely to me in order to his estate or family.

Lucy Hutchinson, born in 1620 in the Tower of London, was the daughter of its lieutenant, Sir Allan Apsley; in 1638 she married Colonel John Hutchinson (1615-64), governor afterwards of Nottingham Castle, and one of the judges of Charles I. During 1664-71 Mrs Hutchinson wrote Memoirs of her husband's life for her children's instruction, which were not designed for publication, and were first published by a collateral descendant, the Rev. Julius Hutchinson, in 1806. This peculiarly interesting and valuable narrative, besides adding to our knowledge of the Civil War in Nottinghamshire, sheds much light on the domestic life of the time, the position of women in society, and the state of education and manners. The unsought graces of the style and its obvious sincerity and truthfulness heighten the effect of a charming picture of a Puritan gentleman and a Puritan home; and the wifely affection conspicuous throughout (even the very exaggeration of her husband's merits and importance) stirs us to warm sympathy with both the author and the subject of the memoir, which is an undesigned rebutter of hundreds of royalist taunts and sneers levelled against Puritans as naturally all narrow-minded, bitter, and uncultured. Though he signed the sentence which condemned Charles I. to the scaffold, Colonel Hutchinson testified against Cromwell's usurpation, and lived in retirement till the Restoration. He was included then in the Act of Amnesty, but in 1663 was arrested on a groundless suspicion of treasonable conspiracy, and died after eleven months' imprisonment in Sandown Castle, Kent, 11th September 1664. Mrs Hutchinson was an exceptionally learned lady-knew French and Latin thoroughly, had some knowledge of Greek and Hebrew, and was well read in theology. She translated Lucretius into English verse, and part of the Eneid (both yet in MS.), and wrote two theological essays, published in 1817. In an autobiographical fragment prefixed to the Memoirs, Mrs Hutchinson describes her youthful precocity and early training thus :

For my father and mother fancying me then beautiful, and more than ordinarily apprehensive, applied all their cares, and spared no cost to improve me in my education, which procured me the admiration of those that flattered my parents. By that time I was four years old I read English perfectly, and having a great memory, I was carried to sermons, and while I was very young could remember and repeat them exactly, and being caressed,

the love of praise tickled me, and made me attend more heedfully. When I was about seven years of age, I remember I had at one time eight tutors in several qualities, languages, music, dancing, writing, and needlework; but my genius was quite averse from all but my book, and that I was so eager of, that my mother thinking it prejudiced my health, would moderate me in it; yet this rather animated me than kept me back, and every moment I could steal from my play I would employ in any book I could find, when my own were locked up from me. After dinner and supper I still had an hour allowed me to play, and then I would steal into some hole or other to read. My father would have me learn Latin, and I was so apt that I outstript my brothers who were at school, although my father's chaplain that was my tutor was a pitiful dull fellow. My brothers, who had a great deal of wit, had some emulation at the progress I made in my learning, which very well pleased my father, though my mother would have been contented I had not so wholly addicted myself to that as to neglect my other qualities: as for music and dancing. I profited very little in them, and would never practise my lute or harpsichords but when my masters were with me; and for my needle I absolutely hated it; play among other children I despised, and when I was forced to entertain such as came to visit me, I tired them with more grave instructions than their mothers, and pluckt all their babies to pieces, and kept the children in such awe that they were glad when I entertained myseil with elder company; to whom I was very acceptable, and living in the house with many persons that had a great deal of wit; and very profitable serious discourses being frequent at my father's table and in my mother's drawing-room, I was very attentive to all, and gathered up things that I would utter again to great admiration of many that took my memory and imitation for wit. It pleased God that through the good instructions of my mother, and the sermons she carried me to, I was convinced that the knowledge of God was the most excellent study, and accordingly applied myself to it, and to practise as I was taught: I used to exhort my mother's maids much, and to turn their idle discourses to good subjects; but I thought, when I had done this ca the Lord's day, and every day performed my due tasks of reading and praying, that then I was free to anything that was not sin, for I was not at that time convinced of the vanity of conversation which was not scandalously wicked, I thought it no sin to learn or hear witty songs and amorous sonnets or poems, and twenty things of that kind, wherein I was so apt that I became the confidante in all the loves that were managed among my mother's young women, and there was none of them but hal many lovers and some particular friends beloved above the rest.

Even more classical is the picture of the sweet domesticities that rather furthered than hindered her (unpublished) translation of Lucretius :

I turned it into English in a room where my chillren practised the several qualities they were taught with their tutors, and I numbered the syllables of my translation by the threads of the canvas I wrought in, and set them down with a pen and ink that stood by me.

Thus she records in the Memoirs how her husband defended himself (generally rather than explicitly) before the Convention Parliament of 1660:

Colonel Hutchinson on his Defence.

When it came to Inglesby's turn, he, with many tears, professt his repentance for that murther, and told a false tale, how Cromwell held his hand, and forced him to subscribe the sentence, and made a most whining recantation; after which he retired, and another had almost ended, when Colonel Hutchinson, who was not there at the beginning, came in, and was told what they were about, and that it would be expected he should say something. He was surprized with a thing he expected not, yet neither then nor in any the like occasion did he ever fail himself, but told them, that for his actings in those days, if he had erred, it was the inexperience of his age and the defect of his judgment, and not the malice of his heart, which had ever prompted him to pursue the general advantage of his country more than his own; and if the sacrifice of him might conduce to the publick peace and settlement, he should freely submit his life and fortunes to their dispose; that the vain expense of his age, and the great debts his public employments had run him into, as they were testimonies that neither avarice nor any other interest had carried him on, so they yielded him just cause to repent that he ever forsook his own blessed quiet to embark in such a troubled sea, where he had made shipwrack of all things but a good conscience. And as to that particular action of the king, he desired them to believe he had that sense of it that befitted an Englishman, a Christian, and a gentleman. What he expressed was to this effect, but so handsomely delivered that it generally tooke the whole house: only one gentleman stood up and said he had expressed himself as one that was much more sorry for the events and consequences than for the actions; but another replied that when a man's words might admit of two interpretations, it befitted gentlemen always to receive that which might be most favourable. As soon as the colonel had spoken, he retired into a room where Inglesby was, with his eyes yet red, who had called up a little spirit to succeed his whinings, and embracing Colonel Hutchinson: 'O colonel,' said he, did I ever imagine we could be brought to this! Could I have suspected it when I brought them Lambert in the other day, this sword should have redeemed us from being dealt with as criminals, by that people for whom we had so gloriously exposed ourselves.' The colonel told him he had foreseen, ever since those usurpers thrust out the lawful authority of the land to enthrone themselves, it could end in nothing else; but the integrity of his heart in all he had done made him as cheerfully ready to suffer as to triumph in a good cause. The result of the House that day was to suspend Colonel Hutchinson and the rest from sitting in the House. Monk, after all his great professions, now sate still, and had not one word to interpose for any person, but was as forward to set vengeance on foot as any man.

The Life of Colonel Hutchinson has been repeatedly reprinted; the best edition is that by Mr C. H. Firth (1885).

Margaret, Duchess of Newcastle (c. 162474), was distinguished even more for her indefatigable pursuit of literature than for her faithful attachment to her lord in his long exile during the time of the Commonwealth. She was the youngest of the eight children of Sir Charles Lucas, of St John's, near Colchester, and in 1643 became a

maid of honour to Henrietta Maria. Having accompanied the queen to France, she met with William Cavendish, Marquis (afterwards Duke) of Newcastle (1592-1676), and was married to him at Paris in 1645. The Marquis took up his residence at Antwerp till the troubles were over, and there Margaret wrote Philosophical Fancies and Poems and Fancies, both published in 1653. Her husband assisted her in her compositions, a circumstance which Horace Walpole ridiculed in his Royal and Noble Authors; and so industrious were the noble pair that they filled more than a dozen mighty volumes, folio, with plays, poems, orations, observations on experimental philosophy, &c., whilst the Duke by himself produced, besides plays and poems, two works upon horsemanship. His share in his wife's literary enterprises is sometimes expressly indicated, but was usually unimportant. It pleased God,' the Duchess Margaret said, 'to command his servant Nature to indue me with a poetical and philosophical genius even from my very birth.' In her dresses the Duchess was as peculiar as in her books. I took great delight,' she confesses, in attiring myself in fine dressing and fashions, especially such fashions as I did invent myself.' Of these we learn something from Secretary Pepys Met my Lady Newcastle going with her coaches and footmen all in velvet; herself with her velvet cap, her hair about her ears, many black patches about her mouth, without anything about her neck, and a black vest fitted to the body.' Pepys afterwards saw her in her coach, with a hundred boys and girls running after her. The Duchess wrote an autobiography (1656), and a Life of her husband the Duke (1667), a work which Charles Lamb considered a jewel for which no casket was rich enough. There is a singular charm in the complete devotion of the writer to her husband (whom she ranks above Julius Cæsar), as well as in the picture presented of antiquated gallantry, chivalrous loyalty, and pure affection. After the Restoration they lived in this country, the Duke being mainly occupied in managing what was recoverable of his once vast estates. Loving and flattering one another, the Duke and Duchess lived on in their eccentric-and, in spite of their heavy losses, magnificent-way for many years; and when both were gone, a stately monument in Westminster Abbey bore record that there lay the loyal Duke of Newcastle and his Duchess,' adding, in language written by the Duchess, which Addison admired, 'Her name was Margaret Lucas, youngest sister to the Lord Lucas of Colchester; a noble family, for all the brothers were valiant, and all the sisters virtuous.' The philosophising of the Female Oracle,' mostly worthless, is, even when sound, wonderfully tedious, though sometimes enlightened by weighty and pithy sayings. Her plays are almost unreadable. Her most popular poem was The Pastime and Recreation of the Queen of Fairies in Fairy Land. It often echoes Shakespeare, but has some fine lines of the