s occasioned him as much uneasiness as his enemies. He lived in
dread that the Earl of Devonshire, whose roof had ever been his
protection, should at length give him up to the Parliament! There are
no friendships among cynics!

To such a state of degradation had the selfish philosophy reduced one
of the greatest geniuses; a philosophy true only for the wretched and
the criminal.[370] But those who feel moving within themselves the
benevolent principle, and who delight in acts of social sympathy, are
conscious of passions and motives, which the others have omitted in
their system. And the truth is, these "unnatural philosophers," as
Lord Shaftesbury expressively terms them, are by no means the monsters
they tell us they are: their practice is therefore usually in
opposition to their principles. While Hobbes was for chaining down
mankind as so many beasts of prey, he surely betrayed his social
passion, in the benevolent warnings he was perpetually giving them;
and while he affected to hold his brothers in contempt, he was
sacrificing laborious days, and his peace of mind, to acquire
celebrity. Who loved glory more than this sublime cynic?--"_Glory_,"
says our philosopher, "by those whom it displeaseth, is called
_Pride_; by those whom it pleaseth, it is termed _a just valuation of
himself_."[371] Had Hobbes defined, as critically, the passion of
_self-love_, without resolving all our sympathies into a single
monstrous one, we might have been disciplined without being degraded.

Hobbes, indeed, had a full feeling of the magnitude of his labours,
both for foreigners and posterity, as he has expressed it in his life.
He disperses, in all his works, some Montaigne-like notices of
himself, and they are eulogistic. He has not omitted any one of his
virtues, nor even an apology for his deficiency in others. He notices
with complacency how Charles II. had his portrait placed in the royal
cabinet; how it was frequently asked for by his friends, in England
and in France.[372] He has written his life several times, in verse
and in prose; and never fails to throw into the eyes of his
adversaries the reputation he gained abroad and at home.[373] He
delighted to show he was living, by annual publications; and
exultingly exclaims, "That when he had silenced his adversaries, he
published, in the eighty-seventh year of his life, the Odyssey of
Homer, and the next year the Iliad, in English verse."

His greatest imperfection was a monst