and ingenuity were applied to trifling ends was the same author’s Garden of Cyrus; or, the Quincuncial Lozenge or Network Plantations of the Ancients, in which a mystical meaning is sought in the occurrence throughout nature and art of the figure of the quincunx or lozenge.  Browne was a physician of Norwich, where his library, museum, aviary, and botanic garden were thought worthy of a special visit by the Royal Society.  He was an antiquary and a naturalist, and deeply read in the school-men and the Christian Fathers.  He was a mystic, and a writer of a rich and peculiar imagination, whose thoughts have impressed themselves upon many kindred minds, like Coleridge, De Quincey, and Emerson.  Two of his books belong to literature, Religio Medici, published in 1642, and Hydriotaphia; or, Urn Burial, 1658, a discourse upon rites of burial and incremation, suggested by some Roman funeral urns dug up in Norfolk.  Browne’s style, though too highly latinized, is a good example of Commonwealth prose; that stately, cumbrous, brocaded prose which had something of the flow and measure of verse, rather than the quicker, colloquial movement of modern writing.  Browne stood aloof from the disputes of his time, and in his very subjects there is a calm and meditative remoteness from the daily interests of men.  His Religio Medici is full of a wise tolerance and a singular elevation of feeling.  “At the sight of a cross, or crucifix, I can dispense with my hat, but scarce with the thought or memory of my Saviour.”  “They only had the advantage of a bold and noble faith who lived before his coming.”  “They go the fairest way to heaven that would serve God without a hell.”  “All things are artificial, for nature is the art of God.”  The last chapter of the Urn Burial is an almost rhythmical descant on mortality and oblivion.  The style kindles slowly into a somber eloquence.  It is the most impressive and extraordinary passage in the prose literature of the time.  Browne, like Hamlet, loved to “consider too curiously.”  His subtlety led him to “pose his apprehension with those involved enigmas and riddles of the Trinity—­with incarnation and resurrection;” and to start odd inquiries:  “what song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women;” or whether, after Lazarus was raised from the dead, “his heir might lawfully detain his inheritance.”  The quaintness of his phrase appears at every turn.  “Charles the Fifth can never hope to live within two Methuselahs of Hector.”  “Generations pass while some trees stand, and old families survive not three oaks.”  “Mummy is become merchandise; Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams.”