plifying them; and one may gather more true knowledge of all that most valuable, and perhaps most divine part of our nature, by studying one of Mr. Wordsworth's small pieces, such as Michael, the Brothers, or the Idiot Boy-or following the broken catches of multitudinous feelings, in the speeches of one such character as Madge Wildfire, than by a whole life-time spent in studying and imitating the style of observation exemplified by Mr. Stewart.

In regard to intellectual operations, it may be said, that a knowledge of their laws confers power, because it teaches method in conducting them. In regard to the laws of association, it may also be said, that knowledge is power, because it enables us to continue the succession of our ideas. But it appears very questionable, whether the empire of science can be extended much farther in this quarter. The power which is conferred by knowledge, is always of a merely calculating and mechanical sort, and consists in nothing higher than the adaptation of means to ends-and to suppose that man's moral being can ever be subjected to, or swayed by, a power so much lower than itself, is almost as revolting as the theory which refers all ideas and emotions to the past impressions upon the senses.

In studying the nature of the human affections, one object should be to obtain repose and satisfaction for the moral feelings, by discriminating between good and evil. Knowledge is nothing in a scientific point of view, unless it can be accumulated and transferred from individual to individual, and unless it be as valid in one person's hands as in those of another; but this could never be the case with regard to a knowledge of the moral feelings.

I do not throw out these little remarks with a view to disparage the usefulness or excellence of Dugald Stewart's mode of philosophizing, so far as it goes. But it would be a very cold and barren way of thinking, to suppose, that through the medium of that species of observation which he chiefly makes use of, we have it in our power to become completely acquainted with human nature. And again, the habit of re

posing too much confidence in the powers resulting from science, would have a tendency to terminate in utter supineness and lethargy of character among mankind; for, if it were expected that every thing could be forced to spring up as the mechanical and necessary result of scientific calculations, the internal springs of the mind would no longer be of the same consequence as before, and the accomplishment of a great many things might then be devolved upon, and intrusted to, an extraneous power, lodged in the hands of speculative

men.

The true characteristic of science consists in this-that it is a thing which can be communicated to, and made use of by, all men who are endowed with an adequate share of mere intellect. The philosophy of moral feeling must always, on the other hand, approach nearer, to the nature of poetry, whose influence varies according as it is perused by individuals of this or that character or taste. The finest opening to any book of psychology and ethics in the world, is that of Wordsworth's Excursion. That great poet, who is undoubtedly the greatest master that has for a long time appeared in the walks of the highest philosophy in England, has better notions than any Scotch metaphysician is likely to have, of the true sources, as well as the true effects, of the knowledge of man.

Thy guidance, or a greater muse, if such

Descend to earth, or dwell in highest Heaven!
For I must tread on shadowy ground, must sink
Deep-and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds,
To which the Heaven of Heavens is but a veil.-
All strength-all terror, single or in bands,
That ever was put forth in personal form;
Jehovah with his thunder, and the choir
Of shouting angels, and the empyreal thrones,
1 pass them, unalarmed. Not chaos, not
The darkest pit of lowest Erebus,

Nor aught of blinder vacancy scooped out
By help of dreams, can breed such fear and awe
As fall upon us often, when we look

Into our Minds-into the Mind of Man,

My haunt, and the main region of my song."

After such words as these, I durst not venture upon any

** NEXT day I went to hear Professor P's lecture. I found him already engaged in addressing his class when I entered, but took my seat close by the door, so quietly as not to attract any notice from him. It was a very pleasing thing to see this fine old Archimedes with his reposed demeanour— (such as I have already described it to you)-standing beside his table covered with models, which he was making use of in some demonstrations relative to mechanical forces. There is something in the certainty and precision of the exact sciences, which communicates a stillness to the mind, and which, by calling in our thoughts from their own giddy and often harassing rounds, harmonizes our nature with the serenity of intellectual pleasure. The influence of such studies is very well exemplified in the deportment of this professor. In lecturing, he expresses himself in an easy and leisurely manner, highly agreeable to the listener, although he does not seem to study continuity or flow of diction, and although his delivery is sometimes a good deal impeded by hesitation with regard to the words he is to employ. I have already described his features to you; but perhaps their effect was finer

while he was engaged in this way, than I had before been prepared to find. I think one may trace in his physiognomy a great deal of that fine intellectual taste, which dictated the illustrations of the Huttonian Theory.

I waited to pay my respects to the professor, after the dismission of his class, and he invited me to walk with him to the New Observatory upon the Calton Hill. This building, which is not yet completed, owes its existence entirely to the liberality of a few private lovers of astronomy, and promises to form a beautiful and lasting monument of their taste. Mr. P― himself laid the foundation-stone of it last year, and already it presents to the eye, what is, in my humble judgment, the finest architectural outline in the whole of this city. The building is not a large one; but its situation is such, as to render that a matter of comparatively trivial moment. Its fine portico, with a single range of Doric pillars supporting a graceful pediment, shaped exactly like that of the Parthenon-and over that again, its dome lifting itself lightly and airily in the clear mountain sky-and the situation itself, on the brink of that magnificent eminence, which I have already described to you, just where it looks towards the sea-altogether remind one of the best days of Grecian art and Grecian science, when the mariner knew Athens afar off from the Egean, by the chaste splendour of pillars and temples that crowned the original rock of Theseus. If a few elms and plantains could be made to grow to their full dimensions around this rising structure, the effect would be the nearest thing in the world to that of the glorious scene which Plato has painted so divinely at the opening of his Republic.

After surveying the new building both without and within at great length, we quitted the summit of the hill, and began our descent. About half way down, there is a church-yard, which I had not before remarked particularly, and which, indeed, as Mr. P mentioned, has of late been much abridged in its dimensions, by the improvements that have taken place in this quarter of the city. He proposed that we should enter the burying-ground, in order to see the place

where David Hume is laid. There are few things in which I take a more true delight, than in visiting the graves of the truly illustrious dead, and I therefore embraced the proposal with eagerness. The philosopher reposes on the very margin of the rock, and above him his friends have erected a round tower, which, although in itself not very large, derives, like the Observatory on the other side, an infinite advantage from the nature of the ground on which it is placed, and is, in fact, one of the chief land-marks in every view of the city. In its form it is quite simple, and the flat roof and single urn in front give it a very classical effect. Already lichens and ferns and wall-flowers begin to creep over the surface, and a solitary willow-bush drops its long slender leaves over the edge of the roof, and breaks the outline in the air with a desolate softness.

There is no inscription, except the words DAVID HUME; and this is just as it ought to be. One cannot turn from them, and the thoughts to which they of necessity give birth, to the more humble names that cover the more humble tombs below and around, without experiencing a strange revulsion of ideas. The simple citizen that went through the world in a course of plain and quiet existence, getting children, and accumulating money to provide for them, occupies a near section of the same sod which covers the dust of him, who left no progeny behind him, except that of his intellect-and whose name must survive, in that progeny, so long as man retains any portion of the infirmity, or of the nobility of his nature. The poor man, the peasant, or the mechanic, whose laborious days provided him scantily with meat and raiment, and abundantly with sound sleep-he also has mingled his ashes with him, whose body had very little share either in his wants or his wishes-whose spirit alone was restless and sleepless, the Prince of Doubters. The poor homely partner of some such lowly liver, the wife and the mother and the widow, whose existence was devoted to soothing and sharing the asperities of adversity-who lived, and thought, and breathed in the affections alone, and, perhaps, yet lives some