a laborious author by that of
ANTHONY WOOD.

WOOD'S "Athenae Oxonienses" is a history of near a thousand of our
native authors; he paints their characters, and enters into the spirit
of their writings. But authors of this complexion, and works of this
nature, are liable to be slighted; for the fastidious are petulant,
the volatile inexperienced, and those who cultivate a single province
in literature are disposed, too often, to lay all others under a state
of interdiction.

WARBURTON, in a work thrown out in the heat of unchastised youth, and
afterwards withdrawn from public inquiry, has said of the "Athenae
Oxonienses"--

"Of all those writings given us by the learned Oxford antiquary, there
is not one that is not a disgrace to letters; most of them are so to
common sense, and some even to human nature. Yet how set out! how
tricked! how adorned! how extolled!"[70]

The whole tenor of Wood's life testifies, as he himself tells us,
that "books and MSS. formed his Elysium, and he wished to be dead to
the world." This sovereign passion marked him early in life, and the
image of death could not disturb it. When young, "he walked mostly
alone, was given much to thinking and melancholy." The _deliciae_ of
his life were the more liberal studies of painting and music,
intermixed with those of antiquity; nor could his family; who
checked such unproductive studies, ever check his love of them. With
what a firm and noble spirit he says--

"When he came to full years, he perceived it was his natural genie,
and he could not avoid them--they crowded on him--he could never give
a reason why he should delight in those studies, more than in others,
so prevalent was nature, mixed with a generosity of mind, and a hatred
to all that was servile, sneaking, or advantageous for lucre-sake."

These are not the roundings of a period, but the pure expressions
of a man who had all the simplicity of childhood in his feelings.
Could such vehement emotions have been excited in the unanimated
breast of a clod of literature? Thus early Anthony Wood betrayed the
characteristics of genius; nor did the literary passion desert him
in his last moments. With his dying hands he still grasped his
beloved papers, and his last mortal thoughts dwelt on his _Athenae
Oxonienses_.[71]

It is no common occurrence to view an author speechless in the hour of
death, yet fervently occupied by his posthumous fame. Two friends went
into his study to sort that va