And here we leave him, casting in dust to dust, which is the last friendly office that he _undertakes_ to do." Begging your pardon for detaining you so long among "graves, and worms, and epitaphs," I am, Sir, Your humble servant, MORITURUS.
* * * * * ON THE DANGER OF CONFOUNDING MORAL WITH PERSONAL DEFORMITY.
WITH A HINT TO THOSE WHO HAVE THE FRAMING OF ADVERTISEMENTS FOR APPREHENDING OFFENDERS.
* * * * * TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR." MR.

REFLECTOR,--There is no science in their pretensions to which mankind are more apt to commit grievous mistakes, than in the supposed very obvious one of physiognomy.

I quarrel not with the principles of this science, as they are laid down by learned professors; much less am I disposed, with some people, to deny its existence altogether as any inlet of knowledge that can be depended upon.

I believe that there is, or may be, an art to "read the mind's construction in the face." But, then, in every species of _reading_, so much depends upon the eyes of the reader; if they are blear, or apt to dazzle, or inattentive, or strained with too much attention, the optic power will infallibly bring home false reports of what it reads.

How often do we say, upon a cursory glance at a stranger, "What a fine open countenance he has!" who, upon second inspection, proves to have the exact features of a knave?
Nay, in much more intimate acquaintances, how a delusion of this kind shall continue for months, years, and then break up all at once.
Ask the married man, who has been so but for a short space of time, if those blue eyes where, during so many years of anxious courtship, truth, sweetness, serenity, seemed to be written in characters which could not be misunderstood--ask him if the characters which they now convey be exactly the same ?--if for truth he does not _read_ a dull virtue (the mimic of constancy) which changes not, only because it wants the judgment to make a preference ?--if for sweetness he does not _read_ a stupid habit of looking pleased at everything ?--if for serenity he does not _read_ animal tranquillity, the dead pool of the heart, which no breeze of passion can stir into health?
Alas! what is this book of the countenance good for, which when we have read so long, and thought that we understood its contents, there comes a countless list of heart-breaking errata at the end! But these are the pitiable mistakes to which love alone is subject.