come down not on the same side that I went up and came down before, but on the other side of the tree, and on the other side of the bank also; and, behold, the tree had a great open place in the side of it close to the ground, as old hollow trees often have; and looking in the open place, to my inexpressible joy there lay my money and my linen rag, all wrapped up just as I had put it into the hole: for the tree being hollow all the way up, there had been some moss or light stuff, which I had not judgment enough to know was not firm, that had given way when it came to drop out of my hand, and so it had slipped quite down at once.

I was but a child, and I rejoiced like a child, for I holloed quite out loud when I saw it; then I ran to it and snatched it up, hugged and kissed the dirty rag a hundred times; then danced and jumped about, ran from one end of the field to the other, and, in short, I knew not what ; much less do I know now what I did, though I shall never forget the thing, either what a sinking grief it was to my heart when I thought I had lost it, or what a flood of joy overwhelmed me when I had got it again.

While I was in the first transport of my joy, as I have said, I ran about and knew not what I did; but when that was over, I sat down, opened the foul clout the money was in, looked at it, told it, found it was all there, and then I fell a-crying as violently as I did before, when I thought I had lost it. . . .

[Jacque presently restored the pocket-book, with the bills, to its owner] and the gentleman gave me £25 in good guineas. When he gave it me he bade me hold out my hand, and he told the money into my hand; and when he had done he asked me if it was right. I said I did not know, but I believed it was. Why,' says he, 'can't you tell it?' I told him no; I never saw so much money in my life, nor I did not know how to tell money. 'Why,' says he, 'don't you know that they are guineas?' No, I told him, I did not know how much a guinea was.

'Why, then,' says he, did you tell me you believed it was right?' I told him, because I believed he would not give it me wrong.

'Poor child,' says he, thou knowest little of the world, indeed. What art thou?'

'I am a poor boy,' says I, and cried.

'What is your name?' says he. 'But hold, I forgot,' said he; I promised I would not ask your name, so

'Well,' says he to the gentleman, 'I dare say this boy was not the thief that stole your bills.'

'Indeed, sir, I did not steal them,' said I, and cried again.

'No, no, child,' said he, we don't believe you did. This is a very clever boy,' says he to the other gentleman, and yet very ignorant and honest; 'tis pity some care should not be taken of him, and something done for him. Let us talk a little more with him.' So they sat down and drank wine, and gave me some, and then the first gentleman talked to me again.

'Yes,' said I, 'my pocket is whole.'

'And where will you put it when you get home?' 'I have no home,' said I, and cried again.

'Poor child!' said he. 'Then what dost thou do for thy living?'

'I go of errands,' said I, 'for the folks in Rosemary Lane.'

And what dost thou do for a lodging at night?' 'I lie at the glass-house,' said I, 'at night.' 'How, lie at the glass-house! Have they any beds there?' says he.

'I never lay in a bed in my life,' said I, 'as I remember.'

'Why,' says he, what do you lie on at the glasshouse?'

'The ground,' says I; and sometimes a little straw, or upon the warm ashes.'

Here the gentleman that lost the bills said, 'This poor child is enough to make a man weep for the miseries of human nature, and be thankful for himself; he puts tears into my eyes.' And into mine too,' says the other.

'Well, but hark ye, Jacque,' says the first gentleman, 'do they give you no money when they send you of errands?'

"They give me victuals,' said I, and that's better.' 'But what,' says he, 'do you do for clothes?' 'They give me sometimes old things,' said I, 'such as they have to spare.'

'Why, you have never a shirt on, I believe,' said he, 'have you?'

'No; I never had a shirt,' said I, 'since my nurse

died.'

'How long ago is that?' said he.

'Six winters, when this is out,' said I.

Why, how old are you?' said he.

'I can't tell,' said I.

'Well,' says the gentleman, now you have this money, won't you buy some clothes and a shirt with some of it?'

'Yes,' said I, 'I would buy some clothes.' 'And what will you do with the rest?'

'I can't tell,' said I, and cried.

'What dost cry for, Jacque?' said he.
'I am afraid,' said I, and cried still.
'What art afraid of?'

They will know I have money.' 'Well, and what then?'

'Then I must sleep no more in the warm glass-house, and I shall be starved with cold. They will take away my money.'

'But why must you sleep there no more?'

Here the gentlemen observed to one another how naturally anxiety and perplexity attend those that have money. I warrant you,' says the clerk, when this poor boy had no money he slept all night in the straw, or on the warm ashes in the glass-house, as soundly and as void of care as it would be possible for any creature to do; but now, as soon as he has gotten money, the care of preserving it brings tears into his eyes and fear into his heart.'

They asked me a great many questions more, to which I answered in my childish way as well as I could, but so as pleased them well enough. At last I was going away with a heavy pocket, and I assure you not a light heart, for I was so frighted with having so much money that I knew not what in the earth to do with myself. I went away, however, and walked a little way, but I could not tell what to do; so, after rambling two hours or thereabout, I went back again, and sat down at the gentleman's door, and there I cried as long as I had any moisture in my head to make tears of, but never knocked at the door.

I had not sat long, I suppose, but somebody belonging to the family got knowledge of it, and a maid came and talked to me, but I said little to her, only cried still. At length it came to the gentleman's ears. As for the merchant, he was gone. When the gentleman heard of me he called me in, and began to talk with me again, and asked me what I stayed for.

I told him I had not stayed there all that while, for I had been gone a great while, and was come again.

'Well,' says he, but what did you come again for?' 'I can't tell,' says I.

'And what do you cry so for?' said he. 'I hope you have not lost your money, have you?'

No, I told him, I had not lost it yet, but was afraid I should.

And does that make you cry?' says he.

I told him yes, for I knew I should not be able to keep it, but they would cheat me of it, or they would kill me and take it away from me too.

6

"They?' says he. Who? What sort of gangs of people art thou with?'

I told him they were all boys, but very wicked boys; 'thieves and pickpockets,' said I, such as stole this letter-case-a sad pack; I can't abide them.'

'Well, Jacque,' said he, 'what shall be done for thee? Will you leave it with me? Shall I keep it for you?' 'Yes,' said I, 'with all my heart, if you please.' 'Come, then,' says he, 'give it me; and that you may be sure that I have it, and you shall have it honestly again, I'll give you a bill for it, and for the interest of it, and that you may keep safe enough. Nay,' added he, 'and if you lose it, or anybody takes it from you, none shall receive the money but yourself, or any part of it.'

I presently pulled out all the money, and gave it to him, only keeping about 15s. for myself to buy some clothes; and thus ended the conference between us on the first occasion, at least for the first time. Having thus secured my money to my full satisfaction, I was then perfectly easy, and accordingly the sad thoughts that afflicted my mind before began to vanish away.

(From the Life of Colonel Jacque.)

Crusoe's Wonderful Escape.

And now our case was very dismal indeed; for we all saw plainly that the sea went so high that the boat could not live, and that we should be inevitably drowned. As to making sail, we had none, nor, if we had, could we have done anything with it; so we worked at the oar towards the land, though with heavy hearts, like men going to execution; for we all knew that, when the boat came nearer the shore, she would be dashed in a thousand pieces by the breach of the sea. However, we committed our souls to God in the most earnest manner; and the wind driving us towards the shore, we hastened our destruction with our own hands, pulling as well as we could towards land.

What the shore was, whether rock or sand, whether steep or shoal, we knew not; the only hope that could rationally give us the least shadow of expectation was if we might happen into some bay or gulf, or the mouth of some river, where, by great chance, we might have run our boat in, or got under the lee of the land, and perhaps made smooth water. But there was nothing of this appeared; but, as we made nearer and nearer the shore, the land looked more frightful than the sea.

After we had rowed, or rather driven, about a league and a half, as we reckoned it, a raging wave, mountainlike, came rolling astern of us, and plainly bade us expect a watery grave. In a word, it took us with such a fury that it overset the boat at once, and, separating us as well from the boat as from one another, gave us not time hardly to say 'Oh God!' for we were all swallowed up in a moment.

Nothing can describe the confusion of thought which I felt when I sank into the water; for though I swam very well, yet I could not deliver myself from the waves so as to draw breath, till that wave having driven me, or rather carried me, a vast way on towards the shore, and, having spent itself, went back, and left me upon the land almost dry, but half dead with the water I took in. I had so much presence of mind, as well as breath left, that, seeing myself nearer the mainland than I expected, I got upon my feet, and endeavoured to make on towards the land as fast as I could, before another wave should return and take me up again. But I soon found it was impossible to avoid it; for I saw the sea come after me as high as a great hill, and as furious as an enemy, which I had no means or strength to contend with-my business was to hold my breath, and raise myself upon the water, if I could; and so, by swimming, to preserve my breathing, and pilot myself towards the shore, if possible -my greatest concern now being, that the sea, as it would carry me a great way towards the shore when it came on, might not carry me back again with it when it gave back towards the sea.

The wave that came upon me again, buried me at once twenty or thirty feet deep in its own body; and I could feel myself carried with a mighty force and swiftness towards the shore a very great way; but I held my breath, and assisted myself to swim still forward with all my might. I was ready to burst with holding my breath, when, as I felt myself rising up, so, to my immediate relief, I found my head and hands shoot out above the surface of the water; and though it was not two seconds of time that I could keep myself so, yet it relieved me greatly, gave me breath and new courage. I was covered again with water a good while, but not so long but I held it out; and, finding the water had

spent itself and began to return, I struck forward against the return of the waves, and felt ground again with my feet. I stood still a few moments to recover breath, and till the water went from me, and then took to my heels, and ran with what strength I had farther towards the shore. But neither would this deliver me from the fury of the sea, which came pouring in after me again; and twice more I was lifted up by the waves and carried forwards as before, the shore being very flat.

The last time of these two had well near been fatal to me; for the sea, having hurried me along as before, landed me, or rather dashed me, against a piece of a rock, and that with such force as it left me senseless, and indeed helpless, as to my own deliverance; for the blow taking my side and breast, beat the breath, as it were, quite out of my body, and, had it returned again immediately, I must have been strangled in the water; but I recovered a little before the return of the waves, and, seeing I should be covered again with the water, I resolved to hold fast by a piece of the rock, and so to hold my breath, if possible, till the wave went back. Now, as the waves were not so high as at first, being near land, I held my hold till the wave abated and then fetched another run, which brought me so near the shore that the next wave, though it went over me, yet did not so swallow me up as to carry me away; and the next run I took I got to the mainland, where to my great comfort I clambered up the cliffs of the shore, and sat me down upon the grass, free from danger, and quite out of the reach of the water. I was now landed and safe on shore, and began to look up and thank God that my life was saved, in a case wherein there was, some minutes before, scarce any room to hope. (From Robinson Crusoe.)

Friday.

He was a comely, handsome fellow, perfectly well made, with straight strong limbs, not too large, tall and well-shaped, and, as I reckon, about twenty-six years of age. He had a very good countenance, not a fierce and surly aspect, but seemed to have something very manly in his face; and yet he had all the sweetness and softness of an European in his countenance too, especially when he smiled. His hair was long and black, not curled like wool; his forehead very high and large; and a great vivacity and sparkling sharpness in his eyes. The colour of his skin was not quite black, but very tawny; and yet not of an ugly, yellow, nauseous tawny, as the Brazilians and Virginians, and other natives of America are, but of a bright kind of a dun olive colour, that had in it something very agreeable, though not very easy to describe. His face was round and plump; his nose small, not flat like the negroes; a very good mouth, thin lips, and his fine teeth well set, and white as ivory.

After he had slumbered, rather than slept, about halfan-hour, he waked again, and comes out of the cave to me, for I had been milking my goats, which I had in the enclosure just by. When he espied me, he came running to me, laying himself down again upon the ground, with all the possible signs of an humble, thankful disposition, making a many antic gestures to show it. At last he lays his head flat upon the ground, close to my foot, and sets my other foot upon his head, as he had done before, and after this made all the signs to me of subjection, servitude, and submission imaginable, to let me know how he would serve me as long as he lived. I understood him in many things, and let him know I was very

well pleased with him. In a little time I began to speak to him, and teach him to speak to me; and, first, I made him know his name should be Friday, which was the day I saved his life. I called him so for the memory of the time. I likewise taught him to say master, and then let him know that was to be my name. I likewise taught him to say Yes and No, and to know the meaning of them. I gave him some milk in an earthen pot, and let him see me drink it before him, and sop my bread in it; and I gave him a cake of bread to do the like, which he quickly complied with, and made signs that it was very good for him.

I kept there with him all that night; but as soon as it was day, I beckoned to him to come with me, and let him know I would give him some clothes; at which he seemed very glad, for he was stark naked. As we went by the place where he had buried the two men, he pointed exactly to the place, and showed me the marks that he had made to find them again, making signs to me that we should dig them up again, and eat them. At this I appeared very angry, expressed my abhorrence of it, made as if I would vomit at the thoughts of it, and beckoned with my hand to him to come away; which he did immediately, with great submission. I then led him up to the top of the hill, to see if his enemies were gone; and pulling out my glass, I looked, and saw plainly the place where they had been, but no appearance of them or their canoes; so that it was plain that they were gone, and had left their two comrades behind them, without any search after them. . . .

When we had done this we came back to our castle, and there I fell to work for my man Friday; and first of all I gave him a pair of linen drawers, which I had out of the poor gunner's chest I mentioned, and which I found in the wreck; and which with a little alteration fitted him very well. Then I made him a jerkin of goat's-skin, as well as my skill would allow, and I was now grown a tolerable good tailor; and I gave him a cap, which I had made of a hare-skin, very convenient and fashionable enough; and thus he was clothed for the present tolerably well, and was mighty well pleased to see himself almost as well clothed as his master. It is true he went awkwardly in these things at first; wearing the drawers was very awkward to him, and the sleeves of the waistcoat galled his shoulders, and the inside of his arms; but a little easing them where he complained they hurt him, and using himself to them, at length he took to them very well.

The next day after I came home to my hutch with him, I began to consider where I should lodge him. And that I might do well for him, and yet be perfectly easy myself, I made a little tent for him in the vacant place between my two fortifications, in the inside of the last and in the outside of the first; and as there was a door or entrance there into my cave, I made a formal framed door-case, and a door to it of boards, and set it up in the passage, a little within the entrance; and causing the door to open on the inside, I barred it up in the night, taking in my ladders too; so that Friday could no way come at me in the inside of my innermost wall without making so much noise in getting over, that it must needs waken me; for my first wall had now a complete roof over it of long poles, covering all my tent, and leaning up to the side of the hill, which was again laid cross with smaller sticks instead of laths, and then thatched over a great thickness with the rice-straw,

which was strong, like reeds; and at the hole or place which was left to go in or out by the ladder, I had placed a kind of trap-door, which, if it had been attempted on the outside, would not have opened at all, but would have fallen down, and made a great noise; and as to weapons, I took them all into my side every night.

But I needed none of all this precaution; for never man had a more faithful, loving, sincere servant than Friday was to me; without passions, sullenness, or designs, perfectly obliged and engaged; his very affections were tied to me, like those of a child to a father; and I dare say he would have sacrificed his life for the saving mine, upon any occasion whatsoever. The many testimonies he gave me of this put it out of doubt, and soon convinced me that I needed to use no precautions as to my safety on his account.

(From Robinson Crusoe.)

See the Lives by Chalmers (1786), Walter Wilson (1830), William Chadwick (1859), William Lee (1869), H. Morley (1889), and Thomas Wright (1894); the studies by Scott, Lamb, Hazlitt, Forster, Leslie Stephen, and Minto; and the editions of Defoe's works in Bohn's British Classics' (1854-55), and those by Scott (novels, 1810), Hazlitt (1840), and Aitken (16 vols. 1895). Lee edited three volumes of newly discovered writings,' mostly short articles, in 1869.

Francis Atterbury (1662-1732), Bishop of Rochester, was born at Milton-Keynes, near Newport-Pagnell, and educated at Westminster and Christ Church, Oxford. In 1687 he answered a pseudonymous attack on Protestantism, and, taking orders, won reputation as a preacher in a succession of charges and a royal chaplainry. Charles Boyle's Examination of Bentley's Dissertations on the Epistles of Phalaris (1698), clever but shallow, was really by Atterbury, who had been Boyle's tutor at Christ Church; his defence (1700) of Convocation won him the archdeaconry of Totnes and a canonry of Exeter. In 1704 he was promoted to the deanery of Carlisle, in 1712 became Dean of Christ Church, and in 1713 was made Bishop of Rochester and Dean of Westminster. His reputation as the best preacher of his day is commemorated in the Tatler, where Steele, after reference to the apathetic pulpit manner of most of the London clergy, goes on to praise the 'dean' who 'is an orator.' To Atterbury is ascribed, with great likeliood, Dr Sacheverel's famous defence (1710) before the Lords; and he was author of the scarcely less famous Representation of the State of Religion (1711). The death of Queen Anne extinguished his hopes of the primacy. His Jacobite leanings secured the disfavour of the new king. In 1715 he refused to sign the bishops' declaration of fidelity, and in 1722 he was committed to the Tower. A bill of pains and penalties deprived him of all his offices and banished him for ever. In 1723 he quitted England, and after a short stay at Brussels, settled in Paris, where he died; he was afterwards laid in a nameless grave in Westminster Abbey. His works comprise sermons, and letters to Pope, Swift, Bolingbroke, and others of his friends. Macaulay's famous article is still an authority; in 1869 Williams published two volumes of Atterbury's

Correspondence. His farewell letter to Pope from the Tower (10th April 1723) is a specimen of his letters (Pope's reply is given below at page 194):

A

DEAR SIR-I thank you for all the instances of your friendship, both before and since my misfortunes. little time will complete them, and separate you and me for ever. But in what part of the world soever I am, I will live mindful of your sincere kindness to me; and will please myself with the thought that I still live in your esteem and affection as much as ever I did, and that no accident of life, no distance of time or place, will alter you in that respect. It never can me, who have loved and valued you ever since I knew you, and shall not fail to do it when I am not allowed to tell you so, as the case will soon be. Give my faithful services to Dr Arbuthnot, and thanks for what he sent me, which was much to the purpose, if anything can be said to be to the purpose in a case that is already determined. Let him know my defence will be such, that neither my friends need blush for me, nor will my enemies have great occasion to triumph, though sure of the victory. I shall want his advice before

go abroad in many things. But I question whether I shall be permitted to see him or anybody but such as are absolutely necessary towards the dispatch of my private affairs. If so, God bless you both! and may no part of the ill-fortune that attends me ever pursue either of you. I know not but I may call upon you at my hearing, to say somewhat about my way of spending my time at the deanery, which did not seem calculated towards managing plots and conspiracies. But of that I shall consider. You and I have spent many hours together upon much pleasanter subjects; and, that I may preserve the old custom, I shall not part with you now till I have closed this letter with three lines of Milton, which you will, I know, readily, and not without some degree of concern, apply to your ever-affectionate, &c.

'Some natural tears he dropped, but wiped them soon; The world was all before him where to choose His place of rest, and Providence his guide.'

William Whiston (1667-1752), an accomplished but eccentric theologian, born at Norton rectory in Leicestershire, became successively a Fellow of Clare College, Cambridge (1693), chaplain. to the Bishop of Norwich, and (1698) rector of Lowestoft. He was ere this known as a zealous exponent of Newton's system. His Theory of the Earth (1696), meant to supersede Thomas Burnet's, brought him reputation, and in 1703 he was appointed Newton's successor as Lucasian professor of mathematics at Cambridge. But for Arianism (Eusebianism he frankly professed) he was in 1710 deprived of his professorship and expelled from the university. His Primitive Christianity Revived (1711-12) included the famous heretical essay on the Apostolic Constitutions, first sketched in a paper in 1708, which maintained that this work was the most sacred of the canonical books of the New Testament, and that the doctrine of the Trinity was unscriptural. Whiston spent the remainder of his life in London, incessantly employed in writing, controversy, scientific crotchets, lectures, and the services of a 'Primitive Christian' congregation. Though an Arian he was a strong

supernaturalist, even anointing the sick and touching for the king's evil, and wrote vigorously against the deists, with whom he was in the popular mind associated. He was a transparently honest and sincere man, conscientious and outspoken, but full of scrupulosities, fads, and vagaries, who would unhesitatingly quarrel with his bread and butter for the merest trifles, and cheerfully confute his dearest friend. He was much taken up with the fulfilment of prophecy, the identification of the lost tribes with the Tartars, the approach of the millennium, and the restoration of the Jews. But it should be remembered that he was one of the very first to illustrate his lectures (on astronomy, earthquakes, and a great variety of subjects) with experiments. Whiston may have been in Goldsmith's mind when he was depicting the simple-minded vagaries of Dr Primrose. Mr Leslie Stephen has recorded fifty-two publications by Whiston. Of his standard (though far from impeccable) translation of Josephus (1737) there is a good edition by Shilleto (1890), his Life of Samuel Clarke (1730) was admirable, and the Primitive New Testament (1745) is a curiosity. His autobiographical Memoirs (1749; new ed. 1753) truly reflect, even in their pragmatical and at times tedious detail, his attractive character as well as his foibles. The following is a fragment:

The Discovery of the Newtonian Philosophy. After I had taken holy orders, I returned to the college, and went on with my own studies there, particularly the mathematics and the Cartesian philosophy, which was alone in vogue with us at that time. But it was not long before I, with immense pains but no assistance, set myself with the utmost zeal to the study of Sir Isaac Newton's wonderful discoveries in his Philosophie Naturalis Principia Mathematica, one or two of which lectures I had heard him read in the public schools, though I understood them not at all at that time; being indeed greatly excited thereto by a paper of Dr Gregory's when he was professor in Scotland, wherein he had given the most prodigious commendations to that work, as not only right in all things, but in a manner the effect of a plainly divine genius, and had already caused several of his scholars to keep acts, as we call them, upon several branches of the Newtonian philosophy; while we at Cambridge, poor wretches, were ignominiously studying the fictitious hypotheses of the Cartesian, which Sir Isaac Newton had also himself done formerly, as I have heard him say. What the occasion of Sir Isaac Newton's leaving the Cartesian philosophy, and of discovering his amazing theory of gravity, was, I have heard him long ago, soon after my first acquaintance with him, which was 1694, thus relate, and of which Dr Pemberton gives the like account, and somewhat more fully, in the preface to his explication of his philosophy: It was this. An inclination came into Sir Isaac's mind to try whether the same power did not keep the moon in her orbit, notwithstanding her projectile velocity, which he knew always tended to go along a straight line the tangent of that orbit, which makes stones and all heavy bodies with us fall downward, and which we call gravity;

taking this postulatum, which had been thought of before, that such power might decrease in a duplicate proportion of the distances from the earth's centre. Upon Sir Isaac's first trial, when he took a degree of a great circle on the earth's surface, whence a degree at the distance of the moon was to be determined also, to be sixty measured miles only, according to the gross measures then in use, he was in some degree disappointed; and the power that restrained the moon in her orbit, measured by the versed sines of that orbit, appeared not to be quite the same that was to be expected had it been the power of gravity alone by which the moon was there influenced. Upon this disappointment, which made Sir Isaac suspect that this power was partly that of gravity and partly that of Cartesius's vortices, he threw aside the paper of his calculation, and went to other studies. However, some time afterward, when Monsieur Picart had much more exactly measured the earth, and found that a degree of a great circle was sixty-nine and a half such miles, Sir Isaac, in turning over some of his former papers, lighted upon this old imperfect calculation, and, correcting his former error, discovered that this power, at the true correct distance of the moon from the earth, not only tended to the earth's center, as did the common power of gravity with us, but was exactly of the right quantity; and that if a stone was carried up to the moon, or to sixty semidiameters of the earth, and let fall downward by its gravity, and the moon's own menstrual [monthly] motion was stopped, and she was let fall by that power which before retained her in her orbit, they would exactly fall towards the same point, and with the same velocity; which was therefore no other power than that of gravity. And since that power appeared to extend as far as the moon, at the distance of 240,000 miles, it was but natural, or rather necessary, to suppose it might reach twice, thrice, four times, &c., the same distance, with the same diminution, according to the squares of such distances perpetually: which noble discovery proved the happy occasion of the invention of the wonderful Newtonian philosophy.

David Gregory left his chair of mathematics in Edinburgh in 1691 to become Savilian professor of astronomy at Oxford. For the discovery of gravitation, see above at Newton, page 11.

Samuel Clarke (1675–1729), born at Norwich, was the son of the M.P. for the town, and at Caius College, Cambridge, studied physics, philosophy, and theology. The Cartesian system then held almost universal sway, but Clarke adopted the views of Newton, and expounded them in his edition of Rohault's Physics. He took orders in 1698. Chaplain from 1698 to Bishop Moore of Norwich, in 1706 he became chaplain to Queen Anne, and in 1709 rector of St James's, Westminster. By his work on the Trinity (1712), in which he denied that that doctrine was held by the early Church, he raised the controversy in which Waterland was his chief opponent. His own views seem to have a distinctly Arian character or tendency; and when he was charged with heresy, the form in which he stated his adherence to orthodoxy was held by some to be a conscious evasion. He recanted nothing, but promised not to write more on the subject, and