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ed with Dr. Clarke, that, “ as Christianity presupposes the truth of natural religion, whatever tends to discredit the latter, must have a proportionally greater effect in weakening the authority of the former."* In his views of both he seems to have coincided nearly with Bishop Butler; an author whom he held in the highest estimation. A very careful abstract of the treatise entitled Analogy, drawn up by Dr. Reid, many years ago, for his own use, still exists among his manuscripts; and the short Dissertation on Virtue which Butler has annexed to that work, together with the Discourses on Human Nature published in his volume of Sermons, he used always to recommend as the most satisfactory account that has yet appeared of the fundamental principles of morals : nor could he conceal his regret, that the profound philosophy which these discourses contain, should of late have been so generally supplanted in England, by the speculations of some other moralists, who, while they profess to idolize the memory of Locke, “ approve little or nothing in his writings, but his errors.” †

Deeply impressed, however, as he was with his own principles, he possessed the most perfect liberality toward all whom he believed to be honestly and conscientiously devoted to the search of truth. With one very distinguished character, the late lord Kaimes, he lived in the most cordial and affectionate friendship, notwithstanding the avowed opposition

opposition of their sentiments on some moral questions, to which he attached the greatest importance. Both of them, however, were the friends of virtue and of mankind; and both were able to temper the warmth of free discussion, with the forbearance and good humor founded on reciprocal esteem. No two men, certainly, ever exhibited a more striking contrast in their conversation, or in their constitutional tempers : the one, slow and cautious in his decisions, even on those topics which he had most diligently studied; reserved and silent in promiscuous society; and retaining, after all his literary eminence, the same simple and unassuming manners which he brought from his country residence: the other, lively, rapid, and communicative ; accustomed, by his professional pursuits, to wield with address the weapons of controversy, and not averse to a trial of his powers on questions the most foreign to his ordinary habits of inquiry. But these characteristical differences, while to their common friends they lent an additional charm to the distinguishing merits of each, served only to enliven their social intercourse, and to cement their mutual attachment.

* Collection of Papers which passed between Leibnitz and Clarke. See Dr. Clarke's Dedication.

t I have adopted here the words which Dr. Clarke applied to some of Mr. Locke's earlier followers. They are still more applicable to many writers of the present times. See Clarke's first Reply to Leibnitz.

I recollect few, if any anecdotes, of Dr. Reid, which appear to me calculated to throw additional light on his character; and I suspect strongly, that many of those which are to be met with in biographical publications, are more likely to mislead, than to inform. A trifling incident, it is true, may sometimes paint a peculiar feature' better than the most elaborate description; but a selection of incidents really characteristical, presupposes, in the observer, a rare capacity to discriminate and to generalize; and where this capacity is wanting, a biographer, with the most scrupulous attention to the veracity of his details, may yet convey a very false conception of the individual he would describe. As, in the present instance, my subject afforded no materials for such a choice, I have attempted, to the best of my abilities, instead of retailing detached fragments of conversations, or recording insulated and unmeaning occurrences, to communicate to others the general impressions which Dr. Reid's character has left on my mind. In this attempt, I am far from being confident I have succeeded; but, how barren soever I may have thus rendered my pages in the estimation of those who consider biography merely in the light of an amusing tale, I have, at least, the satisfaction to think, that my picture, though faint in the coloring, does not present a distorted resemblance of the original.

The confidential correspondence of an individual with his friends, affords to the student of human nature, materials of far greater authenticity and importance; more particularly, the correspondence of a man like Dr. Reid, who will not be suspected by those who knew him, of accommodating his letters, as has been alleged of Cicero, to the humors and principles of those whom he addressed. I am far, at the same time, from thinking, that the correspondence of Dr. Reid would be generally interesting; or even that he excelled in this species of writing: but few men, I sincerely believe, who have written so much, have left behind them such unblemished memorials of their virtue.

At present, I shall only transcribe two letters, which I select from a considerable number now lying before me, as they seem to accord, more than the others, with the general design of this memoir. The first, which is dated January 13, 1779, is addressed' to the Rev. William Gregory, now rector of St. Andrew's, Canterbury, then an undergraduate in Baliol college, Oxford. It relates to a remarkable peculiarity in Dr. Reid's physical temperament, connected with the subject of dreaming; and is farther interesting as a genuine record of some particulars in his early habits, in which it is easy to perceive the openings of a superior mind.

“ The fact which your brother the Doctor desires to be informed of, was as you mention it. As far as I remember the circumstances, they are as follow :

“ About the age of fourteen, I was, almost every night, unhappy in my sleep from frightful dreams. Sometimes hanging over a dreadful precipice, and just ready to drop down; sometimes pursued for my life, and stopped by a wall, or by a sudden loss of all strength; sometimes ready to be devoured by a wild beast. How long I was plagued with such dreams, I do not now recollect. I believe it was for a year or two at least; and I think they had quite left me before I was fifteen. In those days, I was much given to what Mr. Addison, in one of his Spectators, calls castle-building; and in my evening solitary walk, which was generally all the exercise I took, my thoughts would hurry me into some active scene, where I generally acquitted myself much to my own satisfaction; and in these

; scenes of imagination I performed many a gallant exploit. At the same time, in my dreams I found myself

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VOL. VII.

the most arrant coward that ever was.

Not only my courage, but my strength, failed me in every danger; and I often rose from my bed in the morning in such a panic, that it took some time to get the better of it. I wished very much to get free of these uneasy dreams, which not only made me unhappy in sleep, but often left a disagreeable impression in my mind for some part of the following day. I thought it was worth trying, whether it was possible to recollect that it was allra dream, and that I was in no real danger. I to sleep with my mind as strongly impressed as I could with this thought, that I never in my life time was in any real danger, and that every fright I had was a dream. After many fruitless endeavours to recollect this when the danger appeared, I effected it at last, and have often, when I was sliding over a precipice into the abyss, recollected that it was all a dream, and boldly jumped down. The effect of this commonly was, that I immediately awoke. But I awoke calm and intrepid, which I thought a great acquisition. After this, my dreams were never very uneasy; and, in a short time, I dreamed not at all.

“During all this time I was in perfect health ; but whether my ceasing to dream was the effect of the recollection above mentioned, or of any change in the habit of my body, which is usual about that period of life, I cannot tell. I think it may more probably be imputed to the last., However, the fact was, that, for at least forty years after, I dreamed none, to the best of my

remembrance : and finding, from the testimony of others, that this is somewhat uncommon, I have often, as soon as I awoke, endeavoured to recollect, without being able to recollect, any thing that passed in my sleep. For some years past, I can sometimes recollect some kind of dreaming thoughts, but so incoherent that I can make nothing of them.

“ The only distinct dream I ever had since I was about sixteen, as far as I remember, was about two years ago. I had got my head blistered for a fall. A plaster which was put upon it after the blister, pained me excessively for a whole night. In the morning I

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slept a little, and dreamed very distinctly, that I had fallen into the hands of a party of Indians, and was scalped.

"I am apt to think, that as there is a state of sleep, and a state wherein we are awake, so there is an intermediate state, which partakes of the other two. If a man peremptorily resolves to rise at an early hour for some interesting purpose, he will of himself awake at that hour. A sick-nurse gets the habit of sleeping in such a manner that she hears the least whisper of the sick person, and yet is refreshed by this kind of half sleep. The same is the case of a nurse who sleeps with a child in her arms. I have slept on horseback, but so as to preserve my balance; and if the hor stumbled, I could make the exertion necessary for saving me from a fall, as if I was awake.

“I hope the sciences at your good university are not in this state. Yet, from so many learned men, so much at their ease, one would expect something more than we hear of.”

For the other letter, I am indebted to one of Dr. Reid's most intimate friends, to whom it was addressed, in the year 1784, on occasion of the melancholy event to which it alludes.

“I sympathize with you very sincerely in the loss of a most amiable wife. I judge of your feelings by the impression she made upon my own heart, on a very short acquaintance. But all the blessings of this world are transient and uncertain ; and it would be but a melancholy scene, if there were no prospect of another.

“ I have often had occasion to admire the resignation and fortitude of young persons, even of the weaker sex, in the views of death, when their imagination is filled with all the gay prospects which the world presents at that period. I have been witness to instances of this kind, which I thought truly heroic, and I hear Mrs. G- gave a remarkable one.

“ To see the soul increase in vigor and wisdom, and in every amiable quality, when health and strength and animal spirits decay; when it is to be torn by violence from all that filled the imagination, and flattered hope,

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