The Project Gutenberg eBook of Life and Correspondence of David Hume, Volume I, by John Hill Burton.

[6:2] A tragic incident occurred in the year 1683, in which Hume of Ninewells, and Johnston of Hilton, were victims to the revengeful passions of a brother of the Earl of Home, vented under circumstances of singular treachery and inhospitality. It is thus narrated in Law's Memorials, p. 259. "December, 1683, about the close of that moneth, the Earl himself being from home, the Lairds of Hilton and Nynhools came to make a visit to the Earl of Home his house, and went to dice and cards with Mr. William Home, the Earl's brother. Some sharp words fell amongst them at their game, which were not noticed, as it seemed to them; yet, when the two gentlemen were gone to their bed-chambers, the foresaid Mr. William comes up with his sword and stabs Hilton with nine deadly wounds, in his bed, that he dies immediately; and wounds Nynhools mortally, so that it was thought he could not live, and immediately took horse and fled into England—a treacherous and villanous act done to two innocent gentlemen, the fruits of dicing and card gaming."

"Joseph Johnstone of Hilton was stabbed by Mr. William, brother to Charles earle of Hume. Hilton being of a lofty temper, had given Mr. Hume bad words in his own house of Hilton, and a box on the ear. . . . And William Hume made his escape to England, on Hilton's horse. He was after killed himself in the wars abroad."—Lord Fountainhall's Diary, p. 33.

The editor of Law, Mr. Kirkpatrick Sharpe, appends the following farther notices of this incident:—

"Before his death he is said to have returned to Scotland, smitten with remorse, and anxious to obtain pardon of a near male relation of Johnstone's, then residing in Edinburgh. This gentleman, in the dusk of the evening, was called forth to the outside stairs of the house, to speak with a stranger muffled in a cloak. As he proceeded along the passage, the door being open, he recognised the murderer; and immediately drawing his sword, rushed towards him, on which the other leapt nimbly down from the stairs into the street, and was never again seen in Scotland." These events were made the subject of an amusing sketch in Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, No. 569.

[9:1] Unless such allusions as the following be held as an exception: "The north of England abounds in the best horses of all kinds which are perhaps in the world. In the neighbouring counties, north side of the Tweed, no good horses of any kind are to be met with." Essay on National Characters. But he speaks fully as distinctly and specifically of local matters in France or Spain.

The remarks in the text may probably be considered superfluous, being applicable to by far the greater portion of literary men—as those who have attempted to trace, from the internal evidence of their works, the birthplaces of authors not commemorated by their contemporaries, can testify. Thomson, also a borderer, and a poet of rural life, has scarcely any allusion that bears a distinct reference to the scenery of his childhood, and celebrates the heroism of almost every land but his own. In that age, however, to be national in Scotland was to be provincial in Britain; and unless an author chose to aim at the restricted reputation of a Ramsay or a Pennecuik, he must carefully shun allusions to his native country. But the very existence of this, as a general characteristic, seems to render it worthy of notice in this instance, which must certainly be held, like Thomson's, a peculiarly marked illustration of this feature in literary history. Hume had frequently to record events which had taken place close to his home; and the whole of the surrounding district was full of traditional lore, about the wild life of the borderers in the seventeenth century, which would have afforded valuable materials for his history, and some of his other works, had he been one of those who derive their knowledge from men as well as from books. But these volumes will afford ample opportunity for observing, that he required to place no great restraint on his pen to keep it free of provincial allusions; and that, even in his most familiar letters, though he often speaks of the friends of his youth, he says nothing of the places in which he spent his early days.

[12:1] Among the Hume Papers in the possession of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, there is a letter from the chevalier, addressed to "Monsieur de Ramsay, à l'Hôtel de Provence, Rue de Condé, Faubourg St. Germain," dated 1st September, 1742. The receiver of this letter was probably the correspondent of Hume, to whom it may have been sent, under the impression that he was the person connected with the Vindication of the Duchess of Marlborough, a book now well known to have been put into shape by Hooke, the historian of Rome. The letter is in English; and it shows that there are works of genius which the author of "The Travels of Cyrus" had not taste to appreciate. He says:—

"I have read the first book of 'The History of Joseph Andrews,' but don't believe I shall be able to finish the first volume. Dull burlesque is still more insupportable than dull morality. Perhaps my not understanding the language of low life in an English style is the reason of my disgust; but I am afraid your Britannic wit is at as low an ebb as the French. I hope to find some more amusement in my Lady Duchess of Marlborough's adventures. They say a friend of ours has some hand in them. I pity his misfortune, if he is obliged to stoop below his fine genius and talents, to please an old rich dowager, that neither deserves apology nor praise, and that would be too much honoured for her merit by an ingenious fine satyr. I long to be in a condition to travel, that I may see and embrace you, make acquaintance with your amiable young Lord, and assure you both of the tender zeal, friendship, and attachment with which I am your most humble and most obedient servant,

"The Ch. Ramsay."

Perhaps the criticism on Fielding may not be thought inconsistent with the man who pronounced Locke a shallow writer.

[14:2]

At secura quies, et nescia fallere vita,
Dives opum variarum: at latis otia fundis,
Speluncæ, vivique lacus; at frigida Tempe,
Mugitusque boum, mollesque sub arbore somni
Non absunt.

Virg. Georg. ii. 467 et seq.

In the course of the correspondence which follows, there will be found several quotations from the Latin classics. Hume's handwriting is so distinct, that we can seldom have any doubt of the individual letters written by him. At the same time, as he appears to have always quoted from memory, there is sometimes a greater difference than even that exhibited above, between the original and his version of it. I have thought, that were I to attempt to correct his quotations, I would be removing valuable data from which the reader may form an estimate of his mental powers and his education. It will perhaps be allowed, that in some instances he shows a fertile invention in substituting words for those which his memory has failed to retain; while in others, as in the above quotation, the fastidious critics of England will perhaps detect traces of the more slovenly classical education of Scotland. In his published works, Hume appears to have anxiously collated his quotations. But in his letters he seems to have been always more anxious about the judicious choice of his own expressions, than the accurate transcription of the words of others. His letters appear to have been carefully composed. He wrote in constant dread of falling into slovenly colloquialisms of style, and was not ashamed to leave on his letters the marks of this anxiety, in corrections and interlineations. This peculiarity must be admitted to be at variance with the received canon of the learned world, which excuses mistakes and clumsy expressions in the vernacular language of a writer, but has no mercy for irregularities in the use of the dead languages.

[25:1] It may be interesting to compare these extracts with his method of treating the same subject at a later period of his life. The following is taken from his Essay on the Feudal and Anglo-Norman Government and Manners, in the two volumes of his History, first published in 1762.

"The feudal institutions, by raising the military tenants to a kind of sovereign dignity, by rendering personal strength and valour requisite, and by making every knight and baron his own protector and avenger, begat that martial pride and sense of honour, which, being cultivated and embellished by the poets and romance writers of the age, ended in chivalry. The virtuous knight fought not only in his own quarrel, but in that of the innocent, of the helpless, and, above all, of the fair, whom he supposed to be for ever under the guardianship of his valiant arm. The uncourteous knight, who, from his castle, exercised robbery on travellers, and committed violence on virgins, was the object of his perpetual indignation; and he put him to death without scruple, or trial, or appeal, whenever he met with him. The great independence of men made personal honour and fidelity the chief tie among them, and rendered it the capital virtue of every true knight, or genuine professor of chivalry. The solemnities of single combat, as established by law, banished the notion of every thing unfair or unequal in rencounters, and maintained an appearance of courtesy between the combatants till the moment of their engagement. The credulity of the age grafted on this stock the notions of giants, enchanters, spells, and a thousand wonders, which still multiplied during the time of the crusades, when men, returning from so great a distance, used the liberty of imposing every fiction on their believing audience. These ideas of chivalry infected the writings, conversations, and behaviour of men during some ages; and even after they were in a great measure banished by the revival of learning, they left modern gallantry, and the point of honour, which still maintain their influence, and are the genuine offspring of those ancient affectations."

[45:2] The English Malady, p. 330-331. I have run my eye over Cheyne's "Natural Method of Curing Diseases of the Body and Mind," 1742, 8vo,—the only work I am aware of his having published subsequently to the date of Hume's letter, but I have found in it no trace of a reference to Hume's case. Cheyne's works are perhaps better known to the public in general, than any medical books of the same period, and their curious discursive contents amply repay perusal. Their science is of course held to be completely superseded, but the unscientific reader cannot help thinking that there is much sagacious good counsel in his advice, notwithstanding the eccentric garrulity with which it is uttered. His account of his own experiences, in experimenting on himself, is the most interesting department of his medical observations. He describes every thing with a sort of rude eloquence, infinitely more pleasing to an ordinary reader than scientific precision; and the recklessness with which he appears to have submitted his own carcass to the most violent changes of regimen, inclines one to think that he had applied towards it the fiat experimentum in compore vili. He tells us that he was disposed to "corpulence by the whole race of one side" of his family. In the quotation given above, he represents himself as having been studious in his youth. He began to practise his profession in London, of which he says—"The number of fires, sulphurous and bituminous; the vast expense of tallow and fœtid oil in candles and lamps, under and above ground; the clouds of stinking breaths and perspiration, not to mention the ordure of so many diseased, both intelligent and unintelligent animals; the crowded churches, churchyards, and burying places, with putrifying bodies, the sinks, butcher houses, stables, dunghills, and the necessary stagnation, fermentation, and mixture of all variety of all kinds of atoms, are more than sufficient to putrify, poison, and infect the air, for twenty miles round it." Having come from the fresh air of the country into so hopeful an atmosphere, he seems to have resolved that his habit of living should be an equally great contrast to his previous studious abstinence. "Upon my coming to London, I all of a sudden changed my whole manner of living. I found the bottle-companions, the younger gentry, and free-livers, to be the most easy of access, and most quickly susceptible of friendship and acquaintance,—nothing being necessary for that purpose but to be able to eat lustily, and swallow down much liquor; and being naturally of a large size, a cheerful temper, and tolerable lively imagination; and having, in my country retirement, laid in store of ideas and facts,—by these qualifications I soon became caressed by them, and grew daily in bulk, and in friendship with these gay gentlemen and their acquaintances. I was tempted to continue this course, no doubt, from a liking, as well as to force a trade, which method I had observed to succeed with some others: and thus constantly dining and supping in taverns, and in the houses of my acquaintances of taste and delicacy, my health was in a few years brought into great distress, by so sudden and violent a change. I grew excessively fat, short-breathed, lethargic, and listless."

The consequences were "a constant, violent headach, giddiness, lowness, anxiety, and terror," and he went about "like a malefactor condemned, or one who expected every moment to be crushed by a ponderous instrument of death hanging over his head." These evil symptoms prompted him to abandon suppers and restrict himself to a small quantity of animal food and of fermented liquors. He very naturally found that on this abrupt change all his "bouncing, protesting, and undertaking companions" forsook him, and "dropped off like autumnal leaves," leaving him to vegetate in temperate dreariness, while they "retired to comfort themselves with a cheer-up cup," so that he pathetically tells us, "I was forced to retire into the country quite alone, being reduced to the state of Cardinal Wolsey, when he said, that if he had served his Maker as faithfully and warmly as he had his prince, he would not have forsaken him in that extremity."

It would be difficult to follow out the multitudinous course of remedies he adopted, commencing with "volatiles, foetids, bitters, chalybeats, and mineral waters," and how he took twenty grains of "what is called the prince's powder," and "had certainly perished under the operation, but for an over-dose of laudanum after it," having thus experienced something like the good fortune of the man of Thessaly who leaped into a quickset hedge. Under these circumstances he felt his body "melting away like a snow-ball in summer." Having tried the Bath waters, he appears to have somewhat revived, whereupon by increasing his quantity of "animal food and strong liquors," he was "heated so," that he "apprehended a hectic." His next change was to a milk diet, in which experiment he was confirmed by a visit to Dr. Taylor of Croydon, its apostle, whom he found "at home, at his full quart of cow's milk, which was all his dinner." He found in consequence of this change, that he "increased in spirits, strength, appetite and gaiety," until, the old Adam struggling within him, he "began to find a craving and insufferable longing for more solid and toothsome food, and for higher and stronger liquors." Hereupon we have him getting more generous in his diet, but still, as he counts it, "sober, moderate, and plain," in so far as he "drank not above a quart or three pints at most of wine any day." Under this regimen, he says, "I swelled to such an enormous size, that upon my last weighing I exceeded thirty-two stones." Then came fits of various kinds, and a dreary period of hypochondria, with recurrences to the low diet system, and then such startling revulsions from it as the following: "I resolved to change my half pint of port at dinner, into the same quantity of Florence. I ate, at the same time, a good deal of more butter with my vegetables, and plenty of old rich cheese; and likewise nuts extremely—I procured from abroad and at home, great plenty of all kinds, as filberts, walnuts, chestnuts, almonds, &c., eating them in great quantities after dinner by way of dessert," but in pity to the digestive sympathies of the reader this subject must be dropped. Dr. Cheyne is—not the martyr, but the hero of dyspepsia, and Mrs. Radcliffe could not have drawn him through a longer series of horrors than his inventive genius seems to have created for himself.

CHAPTER II.

We have no account of Hume's sojourn in Bristol, except his own very brief statement, that "in a few months," he "found that scene totally unsuitable" to him.[48:1] He must have proceeded to France about the middle of the year 1734, and he thus describes in his "own life," his motives and intentions. "I went over to France, with a view of prosecuting my studies in a country retreat; and I there laid that plan of life, which I have steadily and successfully pursued. I resolved to make a very rigid frugality supply my deficiency of fortune, to maintain unimpaired my independency, and to regard every object as contemptible, except the improvement of my talents in literature."

His subsequent letters show that he proceeded in the first instance to Paris, where he remained for a short time. Not long before his arrival there, some occurrences had taken place which were afterwards prominently referred to in his philosophical writings. A Jansenist, distinguished by his sanctity and the wide circle of his charities—the Abbé Paris, having died, a tomb was erected over his remains in the cemetery of St. Médard. Thither the poor, whom the good man had succoured in life, repaired to bless his memory and pray for the state of his soul. But it was discovered that this devotion was speedily rewarded; for the sick were cured, the blind saw, all manner of miracles were performed; and the evidence of their genuineness was considered so satisfactory, that the Jesuits were never able to impugn them—an instance which it might be well for every one to recall to mind who is told of phenomena out of the ordinary course of nature being authenticated by the testimony of respectable and enlightened people. At length, this series of miracles became offensive to the government—there was no saying how far the matter might proceed. It was resolved that there should be no more miracles performed at the tomb of the Abbé Paris: the gates of the cemetery were closed, and the miracles necessarily came to an end. This occurred in the year 1732, just two years before Hume's visit; and it will easily be imagined that the references to these wonderful events which he would hear in conversation, suggested many trains of thought to the young philosopher. It was not long afterwards, and probably while all this was very fresh in his memory, that the principal theory of his Essay on Miracles was suggested to him. In that Essay he says:

"Many of the miracles of Abbé Paris were proved immediately by witnesses before the officialty or bishop's court at Paris, under the eye of Cardinal Noailles, whose character for integrity and capacity was never contested even by his enemies.

"His successor in the archbishopric was an enemy to the Jansenists, and for that reason promoted to the see by the court. Yet twenty-two rectors or curés of Paris, with infinite earnestness, press him to examine those miracles, which they assert to be known to the whole world, and indisputably certain. But he wisely forbore."

"No less a man than the Duc de Chatillon, a duke and peer of France, of the highest rank and family, gives evidence of a miraculous cure, performed upon a servant of his, who had lived several years in his house with a visible and palpable infirmity.

"I shall conclude with observing, that no clergy are more celebrated for strictness of life and manners than the secular clergy of France, particularly the rectors or curés of Paris, who bear testimony to these impostures."

An illustration of his notice of what was passing around him in Paris, occurs in the following passage in his "Natural History of Religion."

"I lodged once at Paris in the same hotel with an ambassador from Tunis, who, having passed some years at London, was returning home that way. One day I observed his Moorish excellency diverting himself under the porch, with surveying the splendid equipages that drove along; when there chanced to pass that way some Capucin friars, who had never seen a Turk, as he, on his part, though accustomed to the European dresses, had never seen the grotesque figure of a Capucin: and there is no expressing the mutual admiration with which they inspired each other. Had the chaplain of the embassy entered into a dispute with these Franciscans, their reciprocal surprise had been of the same nature. Thus all mankind stand staring at one another; and there is no beating it into their heads, that the turban of the African is not just as good or as bad a fashion as the cowl of the European.—'He is a very honest man,' said the Prince of Sallee, speaking of De Ruyter; 'it is a pity he were a Christian.'"

After leaving Paris, he resided at Rheims in the province of Champagne, about eighty miles north-east of the metropolis. Thence he addressed to his friend Michael Ramsay the following letter, full of observation and thought.

Hume to Michael Ramsay.

"Rheims, September 12, 1734.

"My Dear Michael,—I suppose you have received two letters from me, dated at Paris, in one of which was enclosed a letter to my Lord Stair. I am now arrived at Rheims, which is to be the place of my abode for some considerable time, and where I hope both to spend my time happily for the present, and lay up a stock for the future. It is a large town, containing about forty thousand inhabitants, and has in it about thirty families that keep coaches, though, by the appearance of the houses, you would not think there was one. I am recommended to two of the best families in town, and particularly to a man, who they say is one of the most learned in France.[52:1] He is just now in the country, so that I have not yet seen him; though, if I had seen him, it would be some time before I could contract a friendship with him, not being yet sufficient master of the language to support a conversation; which is a great vexation to me, but which I hope in a short time to get over. As I have little more than this to say about business, I shall use the freedom to entertain you with any idle thoughts that come into my head, hoping at least you will excuse them, if not be pleased with them, because they come from an absent friend.

"When I parted from Paris, the Chevalier Ramsay gave me as his advice, to observe carefully, and imitate as much as possible, the manners of the French. For, says he, though the English, perhaps, have more of the real politeness of the heart, yet the French certainly have the better way of expressing it. This gave me occasion to reflect upon the matter, and in my humble opinion it is just the contrary: viz., that the French have more real politeness, and the English the better method of expressing it. By real politeness I mean softness of temper, and a sincere inclination to oblige and be serviceable, which is very conspicuous in this nation, not only among the high but low; in so much that the porters and coachmen here are civil, and that, not only to gentlemen, but likewise among themselves; so that I have not yet seen one quarrel in France, though they are every where to be met with in England.[53:1] By the expressions of politeness, I mean those outward deferences and ceremonies which custom has invented, to supply the defect of real politeness or kindness, that is unavoidable towards strangers, or indifferent persons, even in men of the best dispositions in the world. These ceremonies ought to be so contrived, as that, though they do not deceive nor pass for sincere, yet still they please by their appearance, and lead the mind by its own consent and knowledge into an agreeable delusion. One may err by running into either of the two extremes; that of making them too like truth or too remote from it: though we may observe, that the first is scarce possible, because whenever any expression or action becomes customary, it can deceive nobody. Thus, when the Quakers say, 'your friend,' they are as easily understood, as another, that says, 'your humble servant.' The French err in the contrary extreme, that of making their civilities too remote from truth, which is a fault, though they are not designed to be believed; just as it is a transgression of rules in a dramatic poet to mix any improbabilities with his fable, though 'tis certain that, in the representation, the scenes, lights, company, and a thousand other circumstances, make it impossible he can ever deceive.

"Another fault I find in the French manners, is that, like their clothes and furniture, they are too glaring. An English fine gentleman distinguishes himself from the rest of the world, by the whole tenor of his conversation, more than by any particular part of it; so that though you are sensible he excels, you are at a loss to tell in what, and have no remarkable civilities and compliments to pitch on as a proof of his politeness. These he so smooths over, that they pass for the common actions of life, and never put you to [55:1] trouble of returning thanks for them. The English politeness is always greatest where it appears least.

"After all, it must be confessed that the little niceties of French behaviour, though troublesome and impertinent, yet serve to polish the ordinary kind of people, and prevent rudeness and brutality. For in the same manner as soldiers are found to become more courageous in learning to hold their muskets within half an inch of a place appointed; and your devotees feel their devotion increase by the observance of trivial superstitions, as sprinkling, kneeling, crossing, &c.; so men insensibly soften towards each other in the practice of these ceremonies. The mind pleases itself by the progress it makes in such trifles, and while it is so supported, makes an easy transition to something more material. And I verily believe it is for this reason that you scarce ever meet with a clown or an ill-bred man in France.

"You may perhaps wonder that I, who have stayed so short time in France, and who have confessed that I am not master of their language, should decide so positively of their manner. But you will please to observe, that it is with nations as with particular men, where one trifle frequently serves more to discover the character, than a whole train of considerable actions. Thus, when I compare our English phrase of 'humble servant,' which likewise we omit upon the least intimacy, with the French one of 'the honour of being your most humble servant,' which they never forget,—this, compared with other circumstances, lets me clearly see the different humours of the nations. This phrase, of the honour of doing or saying such a thing to you, goes so far, that my washing-woman to-day told me, that she hoped she would have the honour of serving me while I staid at Rheims; and what is still more absurd, it is said by people to those who are very much their inferiors.

"Before I conclude my letter, I must tell you that I hope you will excuse my rudeness, if I use the freedom (?)[56:1] to desire of you that, the next time you do me the honour of writing to me, you will be so good as to sit down a day before the post goes away; for I cannot help being afraid that, in your haste, you have omitted many things, which otherwise I would have had the honour and satisfaction of hearing from you. When you are so good as to condescend to write, please to direct so:—'A Monsieur—Monsieur David Hume, gentilhomme, Ecossois, chez Monsieur Mesier, au Peroquet verd, proche la porte au Ferron, Rheims.'"[56:2]

Hume states, in his "own life," that he passed "three years" very agreeably in France. We find from a letter to Principal Campbell,[57:1] that two of these years were spent at La Flêche, and that he had some communication with the members of the Jesuits' College there. He says, "It may perhaps amuse you to learn the first hint, which suggested to me that argument which you have so strenuously attacked. I was walking in the cloisters of the Jesuits' College of La Flêche, a town in which I passed two years of my youth, and engaged in a conversation with a Jesuit of some parts and learning, who was relating to me, and urging some nonsensical miracle performed lately in their convent, when I was tempted to dispute against him; and as my head was full of the topics of my Treatise of Human Nature, which I was at that time composing, this argument immediately occurred to me, and I thought it very much gravelled my companion; but at last he observed to me, that it was impossible for that argument to have any solidity, because it operated equally against the Gospel as the Catholic miracles;—which observation I thought proper to admit as a sufficient answer. I believe you will allow, that the freedom at least of this reasoning makes it somewhat extraordinary to have been the produce of a convent of Jesuits, though perhaps you may think the sophistry of it savours plainly of the place of its birth."

This same Jesuits' College of La Flêche, is familiar to the philosophical reader as the seminary in which Des Cartes was educated. The place which Hume had just left, has been seen to be associated with the birth and residence of a distinguished opponent of the Cartesian theory. We now find him perfecting his work in that academic solitude, where Des Cartes himself was educated, and where he formed his theory of commencing with the doubt of previous dogmatic opinions, and framing for himself a new fabric of belief. The coincidence is surely worthy of reflective association, and it is perhaps not the least striking instance of Hume's unimaginative nature, that in none of his works, printed or manuscript, do we find an allusion to the circumstance, that while framing his own theories, he trod the same pavement that had upwards of a century earlier borne the weight of one whose fame and influence on human thought was so much of the same character as he himself panted to attain.

It is to Hume's early sojourn in France that we must assign the time and the scene of Mackenzie's pleasant fiction, called the "Story of La Roche," published in the Mirror of 1779. It is generally admitted that the writer's materials were merely the character and habits of the philosopher, and that there was no groundwork for the narrative in any incident that had actually occurred. But the story must be taken as the observations of an acute perception, and a finely adjusted taste, upon Hume's character; and our reliance on the accuracy of the picture is enhanced by the circumstance that Smith, deceived by its air of reality, expressed his wonder that Hume had never told him of the incident.[58:1]

"More than forty years ago, an English philosopher, whose works have since been read and admired by all Europe, resided at a little town in France. Some disappointments in his native country had first driven him abroad, and he was afterwards induced to remain there, from having found in this retreat, where the connexions even of nature and language were avoided, a perfect seclusion and retirement, highly favourable to the development of abstract subjects, in which he excelled all the writers of his time.

"Perhaps in the structure of such a mind as Mr. ——'s, the fine and more delicate sensibilities are seldom known to have place; or, if originally implanted there, are in a great measure extinguished by the exertions of intense study and profound investigation. Hence the idea of philosophy and unfeelingness being united, has become proverbial; and, in common language, the former word is often used to express the latter. Our philosopher had been censured by some, as deficient in warmth and feeling: but the mildness of his manners has been allowed by all; and it is certain, that if he was not easily melted into compassion, it was at least not difficult to awaken his benevolence."

The impression of the actions of a kind, charitable, and tolerant disposition, conveyed by the circumstances of the narrative, cannot be represented without incorporating it in full; and it will probably be thought that one or two passing sketches of character, such as the above, are all that should be taken into a work like the present, from a book accessible to every reader. Thus, when the housekeeper comes with the account of the distresses of the poor protestant clergyman and his daughter:

"Her master laid aside the volume in his hand, and broke off the chain of ideas it had inspired. His night-gown was exchanged for a coat, and he followed his gouvernante to the sick man's apartment."

"La Roche found a degree of simplicity and gentleness in his companion, which is not always annexed to the character of a learned or a wise man. His daughter, who was prepared to be afraid of him, was equally undeceived. She found in him nothing of that self-importance which superior parts, or great cultivation of them, is apt to confer. He talked of every thing but philosophy or religion; he seemed to enjoy every pleasure and amusement of ordinary life, and to be interested in the most common topics of discourse: when his knowledge or learning at any time appeared, it was delivered with the utmost plainness, and without the least shadow of dogmatism."

And not less distinctly are the following sentences the echo of Mackenzie's own observations of the character and habits of the philosopher, that they are put in the varied shape of dialogue and narrative.

"You regret, my friend," said [La Roche,] "when my daughter and I talk of the exquisite pleasure derived from music, you regret your want of musical powers and musical feelings; it is a department of soul, you say, which nature has almost denied you, which, from the effects you see it have on others, you are sure must be highly delightful. Why should not the same thing be said of religion? Trust me, I feel it in the same way, an energy, an inspiration, which I would not lose for all the blessings of sense or enjoyments of the world. . . . . . And it would have been inhuman in our philosopher to have clouded, even with a doubt, the sunshine of this belief.

"His discourse was very remote from metaphysical disquisition or religious controversy. Of all men I ever knew, his ordinary conversation was the least tinctured with pedantry or liable to dissertation. With La Roche and his daughter it was perfectly familiar. The country round them, the manners of the villagers, the comparison of both with those of England, remarks on the works of favourite authors, or the sentiments they conveyed, and the passions they excited, with many other topics in which there was an equality, or alternate advantage among the speakers, were the subjects they talked on."

Nor can one, after having quoted so much, avoid giving the concluding sentence, in which the philosopher contemplates the old clergyman's grief for the loss of his daughter, and at the same time that he perceives its bitterness and intensity, is made aware of the consolations which the bereaved old man finds in religion, and "rejoices that such consolation" is his.

"Mr. ——'s heart was smitten; and I have heard him long after confess, that there were moments when the remembrance overcame him even to weakness; when, amidst all the pleasures of philosophical discovery, and the pride of literary fame, he recalled to his mind the venerable figure of the good La Roche, and wished that he had never doubted."

The account of his sojourn in France is thus given in his "own life:"—"During my retreat in France, first at Rheims, but chiefly at La Flêche, in Anjou, I composed my 'Treatise of Human Nature.' After passing three years very agreeably in that country, I came over to London in 1737."

We must now follow him to London, where we find him occupied in carrying his "Treatise of Human Nature," through the press. One of his early friends was his namesake Henry Home, afterwards Lord Kames, who pursued, but with unequal step, the same path with himself. Home was fifteen years the elder of the two, and had joined the bar in 1723. He had already published some of his professional works; but it was at a subsequent period of his life, and when he perhaps became emulous of the fame of his friend, that he attempted works in ethics, metaphysics, and criticism. During many years of continued intimacy, these two distinguished men enjoyed each other's mutual respect; but, in their early intercourse, when his senior had for some time occupied a prominent position in the eye of the public, we naturally find Hume writing about his great project in a tone of modest deference.

Hume to Henry Home.

"London, December 2, 1737.

"Dear Sir,—I am sorry I am not able to satisfy your curiosity by giving you some general notion of the plan upon which I proceed. But my opinions are so new, and even some terms I am obliged to make use of, that I could not propose, by any abridgment, to give my system an air of likelihood, or so much as make it intelligible. It is a thing I have in vain attempted already, at a gentleman's request in this place, who thought it would help him to comprehend and judge of my notions, if he saw them all at once before him. I have had a greater desire of communicating to you the plan of the whole, that I believe it will not appear in public before the beginning of next winter. For, besides that it would be difficult to have it printed before the rising of the parliament, I must confess I am not ill pleased with a little delay, that it may appear with as few imperfections as possible. I have been here near three months, always within a week of agreeing with my printers; and you may imagine I did not forget the work itself during that time, where I began to feel some passages weaker for the style and diction than I could have wished. The nearness and greatness of the event roused up my attention, and made me more difficult to please, than when I was alone in perfect tranquillity in France. But here I must tell you one of my foibles. I have a great inclination to go down to Scotland this spring to see my friends; and have your advice concerning my philosophical discoveries; but cannot overcome a certain shamefacedness I have to appear among you at my years, without having yet a settlement, or so much as attempted any. How happens it that we philosophers cannot as heartily despise the world as it despises us? I think in my conscience the contempt were as well founded on our side as on the other.

"Having a franked letter, I was resolved to make use of it; and accordingly enclose some 'Reasonings concerning Miracles,'[63:1] which I once thought of publishing with the rest, but which I am afraid will give too much offence, even as the world is disposed at present. There is something in the turn of thought, and a good deal in the turn of expression, which will not perhaps appear so proper, for want of knowing the context: but the force of the argument you'll be judge of, as it stands. Tell me your thoughts of it. Is not the style too diffuse? though, as that was a popular argument, I have spread it out much more than the other parts of the work. I beg of you to show it to nobody, except to Mr. Hamilton, if he pleases; and let me know at your leisure that you have received it, read it, and burnt it. Your thoughts and mine agree with respect to Dr. Butler, and I would be glad to be introduced to him. I am at present castrating my work, that is, cutting off its nobler parts; that is, endeavouring it shall give as little offence as possible, before which, I could not pretend to put it into the Doctor's hands. This is a piece of cowardice, for which I blame myself, though I believe none of my friends will blame me. But I was resolved not to be an enthusiast in philosophy, while I was blaming other enthusiasms. If ever I indulge myself in any, 'twill be when I tell you that I am, dear Sir, yours."[64:1]

Butler, to whom Hume is thus found desiring an introduction, had, in the immediately preceding year, published "The Analogy of Religion, Natural and Revealed, to the Constitution and Course of Nature;" and it appears that Hume courted the attention of the author of that clear logical work to those speculations of his own, which, in the opinion of the world in general, have so opposite a tendency to that of the "Analogy." The following letter, acknowledging an introduction from Home, and dated 4th March, 1738, tells its own tale.