he often rubbed it fiercely with his hands, or passed his fingers quickly through his locks unconsciously, so that it was singularly wild and rough.  In times when it was the mode to imitate stage-coachmen as closely as possible in costume, and when the hair was invariably cropped, like that of our soldiers, this eccentricity was very striking.  His features were not symmetrical, (the mouth, perhaps, excepted,) yet was the effect of the whole extremely powerful.  They breathed an animation, a fire, an enthusiasm, a vivid and preternatural intelligence, that I never met with in any other countenance.  Nor was the moral expression less beautiful than the intellectual; for there was a softness, a delicacy, a gentleness, and especially (though this will surprise many) that air of profound religious veneration, that characterizes the best works, and chiefly the frescoes, (and into these they infused their whole souls,) of the great masters of Florence and of Rome.  I recognised the very peculiar expression in these wonderful productions long afterwards, and with a satisfaction mingled with much sorrow, for it was after the decease of him in whose countenance I had first observed it.  I admired the enthusiasm of my new acquaintance, his ardour in the cause of science, and his thirst for knowledge.  I seemed to have found in him all those intellectual qualities which I had vainly expected to meet with in an University.  But there was one physical blemish that threatened to neutralize all his excellence.  “This is a fine, clever fellow!” I said to myself, “but I can never bear his society; I shall never be able to endure his voice; it would kill me.  What a pity it is!” I am very sensible of imperfections, and especially of painful sounds—­and the voice of the stranger was excruciating; it was intolerably shrill, harsh and discordant; of the most cruel intension—­it was perpetual, and without any remission—­it excoriated the ears.  He continued to discourse of chemistry, sometimes sitting, sometimes standing before the fire, and sometimes pacing about the room; and when one of the innumerable clocks that speak in various notes during the day and the night at Oxford, proclaimed a quarter to seven, he said suddenly that he must go to a lecture on mineralogy, and declared enthusiastically that he expected to derive much pleasure and instruction from it.  I am ashamed to own that the cruel voice made me hesitate for a moment; but it was impossible to omit so indispensable a civility—­I invited him to return to tea; he gladly assented, promised that he would not be absent long, snatched his cap, hurried out of the room, and I heard his footsteps, as he ran through the silent quadrangle, and afterwards along the High-street.  An hour soon elapsed, whilst the table was cleared, and the tea was made, and I again heard the footsteps of one running quickly.  My guest suddenly burst into the room, threw down his cap, and as he stood shivering and chafing his hands over the fire, he declared how much he had been