Boyle's natural philosophy as it evolved in the 1660s was the product in part of some competing philosophies and theologies. Since he defined his own thought in terms of these others, one of the best ways of understanding it and its origins would seem to be to study it in relation to this context of competing ideas—especially as this has never before been done for Boyle. This was no mere battle over philosophical and religious ideas; beneath the surface lay extreme ideological differences; the nature of society and government was at stake just as it was in Boyle's dialogue with the sects in the late 1640s and the 1650s. Indeed some of his opponents in the 1660s still represent positions against which he argued before the Restoration, and these are the ones I wish to consider here.

In 1665 or 1666 Boyle wrote A Free Inquiry into the Vulgarly Received Notion of Nature. By “the vulgarly received notion of nature” he means the conception deriving from ancient Greek philosophy, both Platonic and Aristotelian, that there is a governing agency in nature apart from God which cannot be reduced to the mechanical principles of matter and motion. This agency is called variously plastic nature, the astral spirits or the soul of the world, and as Boyle says is conceived by “the schools” as “a being that…does always that which is best.” Boyle's intention is to show that his own idea of nature is preferable to this Peripatetic and Platonic one because his goes further than its rival towards a proper understanding of the relations between Creator and creation.

The background of Christian thanksgiving in prayer and liturgy is in the Jewish berakah, a term which refers to thank-offerings made prior to meals, at the annual harvests or in-gatherings, and upon such special occasions as a military success against the Philistines. David's song of deliverance in 2 Samuel 22 is an exmple of the latter, and numerous examples of other subjects of thanksgiving are recorded in the Psalms. Psalms 66, for example, represents the sort of thanksgiving offered at the annual “Feast of Weeks” or “Feast of Ingathering” (specifically of grain), the Jewish harvest celebration of Pentecost (see also Exodus 34:22). The New Testament records several occasions upon which Jesus celebrated the berakah at meals, the most notable being at the feeding of the multitude in Matthew 15:36 and at the Last Supper (Luke 22:17); and on his way to Rome Paul offers thanks at the breaking of bread during a storm at sea (Acts 27:35). In the Greek of the New Testament the berakah is translated as eucharistia (“thanksgiving”), and it is the Eucharist that becomes the central rite of Christian worship. In his “Treatise on Good Works” Martin Luther observes that “praise and thanksgiving will follow with a pure heart, from which the mass is called eucharistia in Greek, that is, thanksgiving.” Friedrich Heiler affirms that “The Thanksgiving Prayer in public worship, the direct expression of the living consciousness of salvation, is always a calling to mind of the history of redemption.” In effect, the Jewish offering of thanks for deliverance from generally immediate, tangible enemies (the Philistines, the Moabites, unfavorable crop conditions) becomes the Christian offering of thanks for deliverance from sin and death through the redemption of Christ. The sacrificial lamb of the Old Testament becomes Christ the lamb in the New Testament, and for the Christian “the Eucharistic action is first and foremost a sacrifice of thanksgiving.” Any study of Christian thanksgivings, however, will demonstrate that the occasional and specific nature of the Jewish thank-offering remains in Christian practice.

A glance at recent publications on the history of theoretical sociology in Europe would reveal that no one has yet attempted to write a full scale history of the early phases of that movement in Britain. There is certainly nothing that compares with Raymond Aron's Main Currents in Sociological Thought for British sociology. Aron's study, in fact, contains only scattered references to British thinkers and attaches little significance to them. Nor does this absence of Britishers result from some slight on Aron's part. While British sociology during the formative years of the discipline, roughly 1850-1930, did make some notable advances in its empirical branches, it produced no individual worthy to stand with theorists like Max Weber, Vilfredo Pareto or Emil Durkheim.

The reasons for this shortcoming on the British part are numerous and diverse. First, British thinking generally was concerned with more practical problems and not with theoretical matters and thus, automatically favored less abstract forms of social science. Additionally, those few British thinkers interested in problems of theory generally failed to recognize the significance of the advances of Continental mental philosophers and psychologists whose work has done so much to enrich twentieth century social theory. Yet there is a deeper and more subtle set of reasons interconnected with those aforementioned for the relative stasis of British social thought in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

I cannot oucrslipp some without manifest iniury. that descrue to haue their names enrolled in the first rancke of valiant Confuters: worthy men, but subiect to imperfections, to errour. to mutual reproofe; some more, some lesse, as the manner is. Harding, and lewell, were our Aeschines, and Demosthenes: and scarsely any language in the Christian world, hath affoorded a payre of aduersaries, equiualent to Harding, and lewell; two thundring and lightning Oratours in Jiuinity.

These words, occuring as they do in Gabriel Harvey's Pierces Supererogation (1593), cannot but sound strange to modern ears. The language is, of course, somewhat peculiar, as we might expect from a contemporary of Shakespeare's, and in particular from so pedantic a writer as Gabriel Harvey. But apart from that, the reference of his words—with their apparently exaggerated praise—seems oddly misplaced. If he had spoken of More and Tyndale, or even of Whitgift and Cartwright, his praise might have appeared more intelligible. But who today has heard of Jewel or Harding, at least in terms of literature? Neither of them receives so much as a mention in The Oxford Companion to English Literature, or even in Baugh's voluminous Literary History of England, no doubt because they are regarded as belonging to a brief episode in ecclesiastical history. Yet Harvey speaks of them, in openly literary terms, as “two thundring and lightning Oratours in diuinity,” and even dares to compare them with the great Athenian orators, Aeschines and Demosthenes. So the question arises: Was he merely deluding himself with a spirit of exaggeration—a spirit not unknown in Shakespeare's England? Or was he, after all, recording a widespread feeling among Shakespeare's contemporaries which has somehow vanished like a bubble on the river of time?

When the Duke of Northumberland set out from London op July 14, 1553, to play the role of kingmaker and usurp the throne from Mary Tudor in favor of his daughter-in-law, Lady Jane Grey, he remarked prophetically, “the people press to see us, but not one sayeth God speed us.” Yet even without the vocal support of the London mob, his position seemed invincible to informed observers; and so unlikely did the prospect of Mary's accession appear to her supporters, that the four Imperial ambassadors estimated that her desperate resistance would last no more than a few days and that everything for which they and their master had labored would be ruined.

The sudden reversal of Northumberland's fortunes has led historians to conclude that his army was not as powerful as the ambassadors feared: hatred for the upstart and loyalty to the house of Tudor combined to make the upper classes forget their recently-acquired church land and flock to Mary's banner. In their opinion Northumberland had to make do with whatever rabble he could muster from the streets of London, and thus his army was no match in size or quality to that which thronged to Mary at Framlingham. With the weight of informed opinion behind him, Professor Bindoff could confidently conclude: “But this time there was not even a battle. Northumberland's puny force was no match for the thousands who, in the greatest mass-demonstration of loyalty ever accorded to a Tudor, flocked to Mary's camp, and he fell back before them to Cambridge.”