inherit from my father an artist's hand-not elegant in shape, but small, flexible, and having a natural instinct and cunning for any nice operations. My father, besides his matchless "penmanship," was not only a devout admirer of Gerard Dow, and all the Dutch painters, who finished every thing to the minutest touch, but often amused himself with making copies of some fine etchings from these. This I also did, and attained such proficiency with my pen in making pen and ink drawings that they could scarcely be known from copper-plate etchings. I likewise took readily to musical instruments; and I did not find the same degree of difficulty in the manipulation of strings, the stopping of "ventiges," or the touching of the keys, that is common to nearly all beginners. I began with ease, and always improved rapidly in proportion to finding time to practice. I have a turn for cabinet-making, am a good plain carpenter (had almost said "cook "), have some skill in practical mechanics, and the use of all the tools and instruments, and believe that if I had been a dentist I could have taken out a double tooth in a manner that would have delighted you.

But is there no other reason, besides early misdirection and cruel treatment, for the infamous scrawl I write? Is there nothing in nervous temperament and character which may account for it, or at least bring in a new and important element to the consideration?

If my father was a slow, skilful, pains-taking, fine-finishing, phlegmatic Dutchman, what was my mother? I shall say briefly, that Madam van Ploos was a fiery-spirited Spanish lady, who always very much looked down upon my father, and despised his "hand." Her parents had made up the match, she being quite a girl at the time. She was my father's opposite in most things. She had no patience, no

sort of application, no natural skill in any thing; she had* extraordinary energies and animal spirits, did every thing upon impulse, and alternated the warmest affections and tenderness with frequent bursts of fury that sometimes made my father's pen fly clean out of his hand!

But let us now consider a little as to what is going on "within." Now must come my statement of what I feel -of my natural ordinary sensations, in the act of writing. My thoughts, ideas, or in short, the impressions and opinions I wish to convey upon paper, come upon my mind with such a rush-all at the pit entrance, and all trying at once to get through the door-that I have absolutely no patience to make a letter, but rush scrawling along, so that it often happens I cannot myself read what I have written, on turning to it a few days afterwards. The reason is-it is not writing at all, but a set of strange marks and ciphers of no sysWould any good early teaching have superseded this? I think, in a great degree, it would. It would not have prevented a rapid scrawl, which is the result of a peculiar character in mind and temperament; but it would have a strong tendency to render the scrawl legible.

tem.

The question of how far the character of men is to be known by their handwriting, involves many very curious and interesting considerations. By some it has been regarded as a matter of divination or conjuring; but in any case there is something true to be made of it. We see advertisements, from time to time, in the newspapers, offering to divine and divulge the character of any unknown person whose handwriting is brought to them, at the small charge of five shillings per character. By these means men, about to engage in partnership, or to have important transactions with any one, may know beforehand the character of the person with whom they will have to do; in

like manner lovers may be made wise beforehand, and those who have secret enemies may be warned and enabled to prepare for the worst. Is this all nonsense? Not all; but it is simply pushing, as we commonly see, a fact beyond its legitimate bounds, till it becomes an absurdity, and no fact at all worth a pinch of snuff.

Sitting in the little back parlor of my shop at Knightsbridge, trying the merits of several new cases of pipes from Holland, to see how they performed, I fell into a long meditation, the other day, on this very subject, and, as cloud after cloud rose with august placidity into the air, and bowed its volume down from the ceiling, to expand and disperse itself all over the room, it seemed to me that I had elaborated and mastered the comprehension of the whole of the subjeet, though I had lost several customers in consequence, who, I believe, had entered my shop, and gone out again, none the wiser.

In the proposition that character can be discovered by the handwriting, there is some truth, which may be considered under several distinct heads:

1st. Physiologically. As the nervous system has of necessity an influence on the handwriting, the amount of excitability in the system is displayed, more or less, according to the feelings of the moment. You may often recognize the physical temperament very plainly. The cold man, whose blood moves slowly, will generally write slowly, carefully and neatly, if not formally. The pen of the man whose blood moves quickly, dashes along, heedless of the shape of letters, or of making letters at all. The man of impulse and the man of deliberation are thus very often made apparent. It must, however, be borne in mind that the impulsive man may be very capable of the most serious deliberation, and the deliberative man (though this is less

likely) be capable of impulse. A general impression is all that can be arrived at, in most cases.

Secondly. Let us look at this Metaphysically. That the mind influences the body, nobody doubts; and it is only reasonable to admit that the peculiarity of individual minds of any strength, will communicate itself to the action of the hand in writing. Those who employ the reasoning powers chiefly, will usually write slowly and legibly—(perhaps not with any regularity, for that depends upon mechanical aptitude)-while those whose imagination, passions, or fancy, is chiefly called into play, scrawl rapidly and seldom very legibly. We expect the logician to write every word with clearness and precision; we expect nothing of the sort from the dramatist. But even logicians are sometimes in a hurry; may occasionally scrawl wildly as the dramatist, so that a judgment on general principles is all that can reasonably be expected.

Thirdly, we will look at the question Biographically. How were my previous positions borne out? I found, by reference to Nichols's and Smith's collection of Autographs, and the Isograpie des Hommes Célèbres (which I one day went to see at the British Museum, leaving my shop in charge of a youth), that in many cases the writing was very much what I should have expected; in others, it was just the opposite. Here are a few of those I most especially noted.

Queen Elizabeth. She was taught writing by Roger Ascham. Her first copy-book is to be seen in the Bodleian Library. She began well, and improved rapidly. While Princess, she came to write a beautiful engrossing hand— clear and regular almost as an engraving of letters. turned to another signature after she had been queen a long time, and what was my dismay! Melancholy change!

The letters were now thin, spiteful, the lines irregularan ugly old maid's version of her former hand—and the signature was a thing to make one bless one's self! It was an immense, thin, mountebank's letter-and then another such letter, with a signature worked between, the whole having the appearance of an outline of some wild scaffolding whereon stood the pale grotesque skeletons of fireworks, as they look before explosion.

Martin Luther. The writing was firm and legible, though not very equal nor very straight. This I thought a true version; as he had strong passions, as well as strong reasons for what he did.

Sir Thomas More. By no means displaying the calm firmness he possessed; the lines crooked, and tumbling down hill.

Rubens. Manly, bold,—with a careless ease and clearness denoting mastery of hand.

Lord Bacon. Very like an elegant modern short-hand. Clear, neat, and regular. The signature involved with broken lines, as if a fly had struggled and died in a spider's web.

Voltaire. Very clear, regular, steady, and straight; evidently not written rapidly, but with a continuous easc, which might go on writing book after book in just the same

way.

Oliver Cromwell. Large, bold, legible, steady, sharp, and straight. The signature made up of halberds and pointed palisades. But another letter of his was not at all of this character. It displayed a perplexed and undecided mind-at the time it was written.

Prince de Condé. Not at all in accordance with the strong expression and buffalo-features of his face.

Charlotte Corday. Firm, clear, steady, but not without emotion.