From scenes of rage and tumult the poet then leads us to the quiet shades of philosophy in the house of Astragon. This change is not better calculated for the reader’s relief, than for a display of the richness and elevation of the writer’s mind. That the friend of Hobbes should despise the learned lumber of the schools will not be thought extraordinary; but that he should distinctly mark out such plans of acquiring knowledge as have since been pursued with the greatest success, may well be deemed a remarkable proof of high and comprehensive genius. In Astragon’s domain is a retired building, upon which is written in large letters, GREAT NATURE’S OFFICE. Here sit certain venerable sages, stiled _Nature’s Registers_, busied in recording what is brought them by a throng called their _Intelligencers_. These men are diversly employed in exploring the haunts of beasts, of birds, and of fishes, and collecting observations of their manners, their prey, their increase, and every circumstance of their œconomy. Near this place is NATURE’S NURSERY, stocked with every species of plants, of which the several properties and virtues are diligently examined. Is it not striking to find, in the _house of Astragon_ so exact a model of the _school of Linnæus_? We are next led to the CABINET OF DEATH; a receptacle for skeletons and anatomical curiosities of every kind: and from thence, by a pleasing analogy, to the library, or, as it is termed, the MONUMENT OF BANISH’D MINDS. The feelings of his guests on entering this room are thus described: Where, when they thought they saw in well-sought books Th’ assembled souls of all that men held wise, It bred such awful rev’rence in their looks As if they saw the bury’d writers rise. The poet then goes through a particular survey of the authors, distinguished into their several periods, countries, and professions; in which he exhibits a great extent of learning, and, much more to his honour, a sound and liberal judgment of what is truly valuable in learning. Of this, his account of the polemic divines will be thought no unfavourable specimen. About this sacred little book did stand Unwieldy volumes, and in number great; And long it was since any reader’s hand Had reached them from their unfrequented seat. For a deep dust (which time does softly shed, Where only time does come) their covers bear; On which grave spiders streets of webs had spread, Subtle, and slight, as the grave writers were. In these heaven’s holy fire does vainly burn, Nor warms, nor lights, but is in sparkles spent; Where froward authors with disputes have torn The garment seamless as the firmament.