Ursus was wont to say:  “The expectoration of a sentence is a relief.  The wolf is comforted by its howl, the sheep by its wool, the forest by its finch, woman by her love, and the philosopher by his epiphonema.”  Ursus at a pinch composed comedies, which, in recital, he all but acted; this helped to sell the drugs.  Among other works, he had composed an heroic pastoral in honour of Sir Hugh Middleton, who in 1608 brought a river to London.  The river was lying peacefully in Hertfordshire, twenty miles from London:  the knight came and took possession of it.  He brought a brigade of six hundred men, armed with shovels and pickaxes; set to breaking up the ground, scooping it out in one place, raising it in another—­now thirty feet high, now twenty feet deep; made wooden aqueducts high in air; and at different points constructed eight hundred bridges of stone, bricks, and timber.  One fine morning the river entered London, which was short of water.  Ursus transformed all these vulgar details into a fine Eclogue between the Thames and the New River, in which the former invited the latter to come to him, and offered her his bed, saying, “I am too old to please women, but I am rich enough to pay them”—­an ingenious and gallant conceit to indicate how Sir Hugh Middleton had completed the work at his own expense.

Ursus was great in soliloquy.  Of a disposition at once unsociable and talkative, desiring to see no one, yet wishing to converse with some one, he got out of the difficulty by talking to himself.  Any one who has lived a solitary life knows how deeply seated monologue is in one’s nature.  Speech imprisoned frets to find a vent.  To harangue space is an outlet.  To speak out aloud when alone is as it were to have a dialogue with the divinity which is within.  It was, as is well known, a custom of Socrates; he declaimed to himself.  Luther did the same.  Ursus took after those great men.  He had the hermaphrodite faculty of being his own audience.  He questioned himself, answered himself, praised himself, blamed himself.  You heard him in the street soliloquizing in his van.  The passers-by, who have their own way of appreciating clever people, used to say:  He is an idiot.  As we have just observed, he abused himself at times; but there were times also when he rendered himself justice.  One day, in one of these allocutions addressed to himself, he was heard to cry out, “I have studied vegetation in all its mysteries—­in the stalk, in the bud, in the sepal, in the stamen, in the carpel, in the ovule, in the spore, in the theca, and in the apothecium.  I have thoroughly sifted chromatics, osmosy, and chymosy—­that is to say, the formation of colours, of smell, and of taste.”  There was something fatuous, doubtless, in this certificate which Ursus gave to Ursus; but let those who have not thoroughly sifted chromatics, osmosy, and chymosy cast the first stone at him.