ject of conversation gives the least colour of excuse for their introduction. They are delighted with the notion, that, in one thing at least, they are wiser than their master; and it would almost be a pity to put an end to so much pleasantry. P. M.

LETTER IX.

TO THE SAME.

Oman's.

DEAR WILLIAMS,

I SAW yesterday, for the first time, an original portrait of David Hume; and you, who know my physiognomical and cranioscopical mania, will easily believe that this was a high source of gratification to me. Really you are too severe in your comments on my passion for "the human head divine." I wish to God some plain, sensible man, with the true Baconian turn for observation, would set about devoting himself in good earnest to the calm consideration of the skulls and faces which come in his way. In the present stage of the science, there is no occasion that any man should subject himself to the suspicion or reproach of quackery, by drawing rash conclusions, or laying claims before the time, to the seer-like qualities, which a mature system of cranioscopy, well understood, would udoubtedly confer. All that can be done for a very long time, is, to note down the structure of men's heads in one page of a memorandum-book, and brief outlines of their characters, so far as these are known, in another. If fifty rational persons, in different regions of Europe, would keep such books for a few years, and then submit the whole to be inspected by a committee of cool inquirers, there can be no doubt data enough would be found accumulated, either firmly to establish, or fairly, and for ever, to overturn the idea of such a system. Whatever might be the result, I cannot think but that the time devoted to the inquiries would be pleasantly, nay, profitably spent. The person engaged in such a study, I do not at all mean perpetually engaged in it, could not fail to extend his acquaintance with his own species; for he would be furnished with a stronger

stimulus than is common, to be quick and keen-sighted in his scrutiny of individuals. I, for my part, have already my skull-book, and I flatter myself its pages, even now, might furnish no uninteresting subject of study. I promise you I intend to enrich it prodigiously before you have any oppor tunity of inspecting it.

The prints of David Hume are, most of them, I believe, taken from the very portrait I have seen; but, of course, the style and effect of the features are much more thoroughly to be understood, when one has an opportunity of observing them expanded in their natural proportions. The fact is far from being in any respect a classical one. The forehead is

chiefly remarkable for its prominence from the ear, and not so much for its height. This gives him a lowering sort of look forward, expressive of great inquisitiveness into matters of fact, and the consequences to be deduced from them. His eyes are singularly prominent, which, according to the Gallic system, would indicate an extraordinary developement of the organ of language behind them. His nose is too low between the eyes, and not well or boldly formed in any other respect. The lips, although not handsome, have, in their fleshy and massy outlines, abundant marks of habitual reflection and intellectual occupation. The whole has a fine expression of intellectual dignity, candour, and serenity. The want of elevation, however, which I have already noticed, injures very much the effect even of the structure of the lower part of the head. It takes away all idea of the presence of the highest and most god-like elements of which our nature is capable. In the language of the German doctor, it denotes the nondevelopment of the organ of veneration. It is to be regretted that he wore powder, for this prevents us from having the advantage of seeing what was the natural style of his hair—or, indeed, of ascertaining the form of any part of his head beyond the forehead. If I mistake not, this physiog nomy accords very well with the idea you have formed of David Hume's character. Although he was rather fond of plaguing his theological contemporaries, there was not much of the fanaticism of infidelity about him. His object, in most cases, was to see what the mere power of ratiocination would lead to, and wherever he met with an illogical sequence of propositions, he broke it down without mercy. When he was led into ill-toned and improper feelings, it was chiefly by

the intoxication of intellectual power, for there seems to have been much humanity and graciousness in his disposition.

In the same room, I saw also a portrait, by the same hand, of David's illustrious friend, and illustrious enemy, Jean Jacques. No person who sees their two heads in this juxtaposition, can help wondering by what circumstances these two men should ever have been led to imagine themselves capable of entertaining true feelings of friendship for each other. As well might one conceive of an alliance between the calm, cud-chewing, mild-eyed cow of the meadow, and the wild, fierce, untamed and untameable leopard or panther of the jungle. Rousseau is represented in his usual fantastic Armenian garb, a loose flowing brown vest or caftan, and a high furred bonnet on his head. This last piece of dress mingles itself admirably with his wiry hair, twisted and convolved, as if it grew through a skin that had no rest-and both harmonize, as well as possible, with the thin, pale, melancholy visage, the narrow irascible lips, the black wandering impenetrable eye, and the thick jesty eyebrows drawn together with such a look of visionary suspiciousness. One sees little of the forehead itself, but the bonnet gives the effect of great elevation, and such, I doubt not, was the truth, could we look below. What an eloquent expression of self-tormenting imagination! It seems, as if all thoughts came to that mysterious receptacle, and few could find there any resting place. Enthusiasm, with the strong wing, and the kingly eye of the eagle-the meaner ferocity of the kite-and passionate dreams, soft as the pinions of a dove-and broken touches of melody, more melting than the music of nightingales. Most strange, most unintelligible of men! what glimpses of more than earthly happiness must he have experienced, when in the glory of his strength, he tossed from him for a time his besetting infirmities, and allowed his free spirit to soar and hover at its will! What more than mortal anguish, in the degradation and subjection of that which was capable of so ærial a flightthe imprisonment of the King of the Air! What wonder, that when mean thoughts festered in his nobler soul, he should have deemed all men traitors to his liberty, and poured his burning curses on them through the self-raised bars of his visionary dungeon! Alas! how easy to condemn, how difficult to sympathise in, the aberrations of such a spirit!

The gentle, inflexible, intellectual David-the most con

sistent of men-how should he have been the friend, the companion, of this phrenzied enthusiast? How could these men have understood each other?-their very eyes speak languages which have scarce two words in common. In infidelity--the only point of their agreement, Hume was far more different from Rousseau, than half the Christians in the world are from half the infidels. They fought against different parts of the system, and they fought with different weapons. There was more danger by far to be dreaded from the Scot than the Swiss. His onset, indeed, was not attended with so much of the spectacular and imposing circumstances of combat-his troops were of a more still and quiet disposition, but they made their attacks with more cunning skill, and the effects of their impious triumphs have been far more durable and deadly. The high and lofty parts of man's nature, which Rousseau audaciously enlisted against the Bible, struggled, for a season, with all the clamours of determinate warfare; but they are the natural allies of that which they assaulted, and throughout the world they have long since returned devoutly to their old allegiance.

In Scotland, for I am still here, the nature of the conflict has, I fear, corrupted even those that fought on the right side. Religion is too exclusively defended by arms of the same kind with those which attacked her. But I have no room at present to enter upon this.

P. M.

DEAR DAVID,

LETTER X.

TO THE REV. DAVID WILLIAMS.

I TOLD you that Mr. Scott sent me a letter of introduction to Mr. McKenzie, the Man of Feeling, and I need not tell you, that such an introduction to such a man, was as agreeable a circumstance as any that could have fallen in my way. I made all haste to deliver my credentials, but was told, when I called at his house, that the old gentleman had gone out a-riding. I really had no expectation of hearing his absence accounted for in that way, for I had always been accustomed to think of him as of one who had entirely out

lived all his contemporaries, and who must, therefore, be long past the years of active exertion. My surprise, however, was an agreeable one, and I prepared myself to find the veteran, when I should have the fortune to see him, a yet more interesting person than I had taught myself to look for.

Yesterday morning I received a note from him, in which he apologized for not having immediately returned my call. He was extremely busy, he said, all the morning, but hoped I would come and dine with him in an unceremonious manner, the first day I found myself disengaged. I had half promised to dine at a tavern with one or two young gentlemen, friends of W; but my curiosity was such, that I forthwith excused myself in that quarter, and accepted Mr. McKenzie's I assure invitation for the same day on which it reached me. you, that I should not have grudged my journey to Scotland, although I had laid up nothing to bring back with me, excepting the recollection of this one day.

As I walked in the direction of his house, with the certainty that a few minutes walk would bring me into his company, I was conscious of an almost superstitious feeling-a mysterious kind of expectation--something like what I can conceive to have been felt by the Armenian, when the deep green curtain hung before him, the uplifting of which, he was assured, would open to him a view into departed years, and place before his eyes the actual bodily presence of his long buried ancestor. I had read his works when yet in the years of my infancy. The beautiful visions of his pathe-. tic imagination had stamped a soft and delicious, but deep and indelible impression on my mind, long before I had heard the very name of criticism; perhaps before any of the literature of the present age existed--certainly long, very long, before I ever dreamt of its existence. The very names of the heroes and heroines of his delightful stories sounded in my ears like the echoes of some old romantic melody, too simple, and too beautiful to have been framed in these degenerate over-scientific days. Harley-La Roche-Montalban-Julia de Roubigné-what graceful mellow music is in the well remembered cadences—the “ παλαίων ὀνοματ ονειρων ! And I was, in truth, to see "in the flesh" the hoary magician, whose wand had called those etherial creations into everlasting being. A year before, I should have entertained almost as much hope of sitting at the same table with Goldsmith, or Sterne, or Addison, or any of those mild spirits so