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that there might be a new translation of the Bible; because those allowed in the reign of Henry the Eighth and Edward the Sixth were corrupt, and not answerable to the truth of the original.' As the result of the Conference at Hampton, which was composed of the clergy of both the Puritan and the Established Church, fifty-four of the best scholars of the kingdom were designated to carry out the design contemplated. Of these, however, seven either died, or declined to serve before the translation commenced; and the remaining forty-seven were formed into five separate divisions.

The first division met at Westminster, and to them, with Dr. Lancelot Andrews at their head, was assigned that part of the Old Testament which extends from Genesis to the second book of Kings, inclusive.

The second division met at Cambridge, and at their head was placed Dr. Edward Livlie, who, for more than thirty years, was Regius Professor of Hebrew, in Cambridge University. The portion of the Old Testament assigned to this division extended from First Chronicles to Ecclesiastes, inclusive.

The third division met at Oxford, and under the direction of Dr. John Harding, then Regius Professor of Hebrew in the university, and afterward President of Magdelen College, had assigned to them that part of the Old Testament which extends from Isaiah to Malachi, inclusive.

The fourth division also met at Oxford, and with Dr. Thomas Ravis, Dean of Christ's Church, and afterward Bishop of London, at their head, undertook the translation of that part of the New Testament which extends from Matthew to the Acts, inclusive, and the Revelation.

The fifth division, under the guidance of Dr. William Barlow, Dean of Chester, held their sessions at Westminster, and to them was assigned the remaining part of the New Testament, extending from Romans to Jude, inclusive.

In executing their important task, each individual translator was required to translate the entire portion assigned to his division, and when all in any one division had finished, they met together and compared their several translations, decided all differences, and settled upon what they considered the best translation. When the several divisions had finished their labor, they all met together and appointed twelve of their number to revise the whole work. This being done, the new translation was published in 1611, under the following title:-The Holy Bible containing the Old Testament and the New, newly translated out of the Original Tongues, and with the former Translations diligently compared and revised by his Majesty's Special Commandment.

As a specimen of the English language, this great work is, in the words of Spenser, emphatically, 'A well of English undefiled;' and as the learned Dr. Adam Clarke remarks:-The translators have seized the very spirit and soul of the original, and expressed this almost everywhere with pathos and energy: they have not only made a standard translation, but have made this translation the standard of our language.' We have little to fear, there

fore, from the weak attempts of ephemeral minds to mar its accuracy and beauty.

The importance of a correct view of the English standard translation of the Bible, has led us into a more extended detail of the circumstances under which we came into possession of that invaluable treasure, than the range of these lectures would otherwise have justified. We now proceed to notice those clerical and other writers of the period at present under consideration, to whom we have not hitherto referred. Of these the names of Burton, Hall, Overbury, Selden, Usher, Hales, and Felltham are the first that occur.

ROBERT BURTON was of an ancient family of Leicestershire, and was born at Lindley, in that county, on the eighth of February, 1576. After pursuing the usual preparatory studies at a grammar-school in Warwickshire, he, in 1593, entered Brazen-nose College, Oxford, and six years after was elected student of Christ's Church College, in the same university. Having graduated and taken orders, Burton, in 1616, was preferred to the vicarage of St. Thomas, in the west suburb of Oxford, and received also, a few years after, the rectory of Segrave in Leicestershire, both of which he held, though with some difficulty, till his death, which occurred in January, 1639.

Burton was a man of great benevolence and learning, but of whimsical and melancholy disposition. Though at certain times he was a facetious companion, yet at others, his spirits were very low; and when in this latter condition he would go down to the river near Oxford, and dispel his gloom by listening to the coarse jests and ribaldry of the bargemen, which excited him to violent laughter. To alleviate his mental distress, he wrote a work, entitled The Anatomy of Melancholy, which appeared in 1651, and presents, in quaint language, and with many shrewd and amusing remarks, a view of all the modifications of that disease, and the manner of curing it. The erudition displayed in this work is extraordinary, every page abounding with quotations from Latin authors. Its publication was so successful that the publisher realized a fortune by it; and it delighted Dr. Johnson so much, that he said it was the only book that ever took him out of bed two hours before he wished to rise.'

Prefixed to the Anatomy of Melancholy, is a poem from which Milton borrowed some of the imagery of 'Il Penseroso.' Of this poem the following are the first six stanzas :

ABSTRACT OF MELANCHOLY.

When I go musing all alone,

Thinking of divers things foreknown,

When I build castles in the air,

Void of sorrow, void of fear,

Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet,
Methinks the time runs very fleet.

All my joys to this are folly;
Nought so sweet as melancholy.

When I go walking all alone,
Recounting what I have ill-done,
My thoughts on me then tyrannize,
Fear and sorrow me surprise;
Whether I tarry still, or go,

Methinks the time moves very slow.
All my griefs to this are jolly;
Nought so sad as melancholy.

When to myself I act and smile,
With pleasing thoughts the time beguile,
By a brook side or wood so green,
Unheard, unsought for, or unseen,
A thousand pleasures do me bless,
And crown my soul with happiness.
All my joys besides are folly;
None so sweet as melancholy.

When I lie, sit, or walk alone,
I sigh, I grieve, making great moan;
In a dark grove or irksome den,
With discontent and furies then,
A thousand miseries at once
Mine heavy heart and soul esconce.
All my griefs to this are jolly;
Nought so sour as melancholy.

Methinks I hear, methinks I see
Sweet music, wondrous melody,

Towns, palaces, and cities, fine;

Here now, then there, the world is mine.

Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine,

Whate'er is lovely is divine.

All other joys to this are folly;
None so sweet as melancholy.

Methinks I hear, methinks I see
Ghosts, goblins, fiends: my phantasie
Presents a thousand ugly shapes;
Headless bears, black men, and apes;
Doleful outcries and fearful sights
My sad and dismal soul affrights.

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All my griefs to this are jolly;
None so damn'd as melancholy.

the following brief extract will be a sufficient specimen :

MELANCHOLY AND CONTEMPLATION.

Voluntary solitariness is that which is familiar with melancholy, and gently brings on, like a Siren, a shooing-horn, or some sphinx, to this irrevocable gulf; a primary cause Piso calls it: most pleasant it is at first, to such as are melancholy given, to lie in bed whole days, and keep their chambers; to walk alone in some solitary grove, betwixt wood and water, by a brook side; to meditate upon some delightsome and pleasant subject, which shall affect them most; 'amabilis insania,' and 'mentis

gratissimus error.' A most incomparable delight it is to melancholize, and build castles in the air; to go smiling to themselves, acting an infinite variety of parts, which they suppose and strongly imagine they represent, or that they see acted or done. Blanda quidem ab initio,' ('pleasant, indeed, it is at first,') saith Lemnius, to conceive and meditate of such pleasant things sometimes, present, past, or to come, as Rhasis speaks. So delightsome these toys are at first, they could spend whole days and nights without sleep, even whole years alone in such coutemplations and fantastical meditations which are like unto dreams; and they will hardly be drawn from them, or willingly interrupt. So pleasant their vain conceits are, that they hinder their ordinary tasks and necessary business; they can not address themselves to them, or almost to any study or employment: these fantastical and bewitching thoughts so covertly, so feelingly, so urgently, so continually set upon, creep in, insinuate, possess, overcome, distract and detain them; they can not, I say, go about their more necessary business, stave off or extricate themselves, but are ever musing, melancholizing, and carried along, as he (they say) that is led round about an heath with a puck in the night. They run earnestly on in this labyrinth of anxious and solicitous melancholy meditations, and can not well or willingly refrain, or easily leave off winding and unwinding themselves as so many clocks, and still pleasing their humours, until at last the scene is turned upon a sudden, by some bad object; and they, being now habituated to such vain meditation and solitary places, can endure no company, can ruminate of nothing but harsh and distasteful subjects. Fear, sorrow, suspicion, 'subrusticus pudor,'-['clownish bashfulness,'] discontent cares, and weariness of life, surprise them, in a moment; and they can think of nothing else; continually suspecting, no sooner their eyes open, but this infernal plague of melancholy seizeth upon them, and terrifies their souls, representing some dismal object to their minds, which now, by no means, no labour, no persuasions, they can avoid.

JOSEPH HALL, whom we have briefly noticed as a poetical satirist, was born in Bristow Park, Leicestershire, on the first of July, 1574. At the age of fifteen he was sent to Emanuel College, Cambridge, of which, after taking his degrees, he became a fellow. After remaining six years at College, Hall took orders, and was soon after presented to the rectory of Halsted, in Suffolk. In 1605 he accompanied Sir Edward Bacon to the Spa, and while residing there composed his Century Meditations, the most popular of his works. Hall's 'Meditations' greatly pleased Prince Henry, in consequence of which he selected him for his chaplain, and, in 1612, caused the degree of doctor of Divinity to be conferred upon him. The Prince would have retained his chaplain near his person, but about this time Hall received, from the Earl of Norwich, the vicarage of Waltham, in Essex, with the quiet retirement of which he was so much delighted that no prospect of preferment had any influence with him. In the delightful relations of a country parson he remained at Waltham for many years. In 1618 he was sent, by King James, to synod of Dordt. Indisposition, however, soon compelled him to return to England; but before his departure he preached a Latin sermon to that famous assembly, with which they were so much pleased that they soon after sent him a gold medal, having upon it a portraiture of the synod.

In 1624 Hall was offered the bishopric of Gloucester, which he declined; but three years after he accepted that of Exeter, from which, in 1641, he was transferred to the see of Norwich. In December of the same year, hav

ing joined with other bishops in protesting against the validity of all laws made during their compulsory absence from the parliament, he was, with others, committed to the Tower, in January, 1642. In the following June, having obtained his release, he returned to Norwich, where he passed a few months without molestation; but the sequestration of his revenues by parliament, in April, 1643, so embarrassed his relations to his see, that a few years after he retired to a small estate, which he rented at Higham, near Norwich, where he died, on the eighth of September, 1656.

Bishop Hall is universally allowed to have been a man of great wit and learning, and of equal meekness, modesty, and piety. He was a very zealous opposer of popery, and was equally severe upon those protestants who separated from the Established Church without extreme necessity. His writings are voluminous; and from the pithy and sententious quality of his style, he has been called 'the English Seneca.' Many parts of his prose writings have the thought, feeling, and melody of the finest poetry. The most popular of his works is his 'Meditations,' a few extracts from which follow:

UPON THE SIGHT OF A TREE FULL-BLOSSOMED.

Here is a tree overlaid with blossoms; it is not possible that all these should prosper; one of them must needs rob the other of moisture and growth; I do not love to see an infancy over-hopeful; in these pregnant beginnings one faculty starves another, and at last leaves the mind sapless and barren: as, therefore, we are wont to pull off some of the too frequent blossoms, that the rest may thrive, so, it is good wisdom to moderate the early excess of the parts, or progress of over-forward childhood. Neither is it otherwise in our Christian profession; a sudden and lavish ostentation of grace may fill the eye with wonder, and the mouth with talk, but will not at the last fill the lap with fruit.

Let me not promise too much, nor raise too high expectations of my undertakings; I had rather men should complain of my small hopes than of my short perform

ances.

UPON OCCASION OF A RED-BREAST COMING INTO HIS CHAMBER.

Pretty bird, how cheerfully dost thou sit and sing, and yet knowest not where thou art, nor where thou shalt make thy next meal; and at night must shroud thyself in a bush for lodging! What a shame is it for me, that see before me so liberal provisions of my God, and find myself sit warm under my own roof, yet am ready to droop under a distrustful and unthankful dullness. Had I so little certainty of my harbour and purveyance, how heartless should I be, how careful; how little should I have to make music to thee or myself! Surely thou comest not hither without a providence. God sent thee not so much to delight, as to shame me, but all in a conviction of my sullen unbelief, who, under more apparent means, am less cheerful and confident; reason and faith have not done so much in me, as in thee mere instinct of nature; want of foresight makes thee more merry if not more happy here, than the foresight of better things maketh me.

O God, thy providence is not impaired by those powers thou hast given me above these brute things; let not my greater helps hinder me from a holy security, and comfortable reliance on thee.

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