"Education has its final end with the species not less than with the individual. What art succeeds in effecting with the individual, shall not nature effect with the whole ?

"The period of completion will assuredly come, in which man, however his understanding feels convinced of the continually better futurity, will still not be necessitated to draw motives of conduct from this futurity: when he will do good because it is good; not because arbitrary rewards are set on it, which were formerly employed to strengthen his volatile sight for the recognition of internal and better rewards.”

DODDRIDGE'S CORRESPONDENCE AND DIARY.*

"Do not you think Biography a very delightful study, and as useful as it is interesting?" is a question asked by all intelligent young people of their sensible seniors; and there is no difficulty in anticipating the answer, for it is always in the affirmative. There is perhaps no department of literature which affords such varied instruction and entertainment to different orders of mind. Young and old, grave and gay, the learned and the simple, the scientific man and the moralist, all have some high example before their eyes, some patron saint, through whom their homage is paid to a supreme object of pursuit. The young sailor who despises all other books delights in the Lives of the Admirals; the embryo statesman pores over the Lives of the Chancellors. Every page in Plutarch is familiar to the best boys in the highest form; while members of the ad

* The Correspondence and Diary of Philip Doddridge, D. D. Edited from the original MSS. by J. D. Humphreys, Esq. 2 vols. 8vo. London, 1829. Colburn & Bentley.

ministration, and the orators of Parliament, are acquainted with the minutest circumstances in the lives of their predecessors and models. In one or two of our religious denominations, the lives of the pious are almost the only books circulated besides the Bible; and in the nursery, the child's absorbing interest in Robinson Crusoe is caused by the belief that it is true. And yet in no department of literature, perhaps, is there so much imperfection; in none so much error and deception. The causes of this imperfection are so obvious, and so many curious discoveries have been made here and there, that a pretty general distrust of the fidelity of biographers now exists; and few but children and the wilfully credulous now believe all that is told them of the great and good and wonderful people whom they long to resemble. This distrust, however unavoidable, has a very demoralizing effect; and it is worth a serious inquiry whether there is any probability, or at least whether there is not a possibility of its being removed.

The liability to deception of which we complain relates solely to the character of the person whose mind and whose deeds are set forth, and therefore it is of more material consequence in some kinds of biography than in others. The value of some histories of eminent men depends on the character of their external actions more than of their internal constitution. When we read of scientific men, for instance, it concerns us more to know what were their discoveries and inventions, and how they made them, than how they controlled their tempers and their families; and with respect to these inventions and discoveries, we are not in much danger of being deceived. In forming an acquaintance with an eminent statesman, we follow his schemes from their origin to their completion, and watch the progress of measures on which the welfare of millions depends, without being so anxious to attend him into the retirement of his

thoughts as in the case of the philosopher or the saint, whose mind and not whose fortunes, is the subject of our inquiry. Yet an acquaintance with the fortunes and achievements of eminent men is of little importance, in comparison with the knowledge of the internal machinery by which those achievements are originated, and those fortunes modified; and in proportion to the dimness of our insight into this internal constitution does biography lose its interest and its value. The histories of pious men and moralists are worth almost nothing at all, if the structure of their minds is hidden from the reader; and as long as the revelation is partial, and the representation defective, the effect on the mind of the inquirer cannot be purely beneficial. Has such a thing as a tolerably correct delineation of any one mind ever been offered to the public? Have we ever met with a representation of character supported by facts, at all approaching in fairness to those discussions of the characters of our friends which are held in conversation while they are alive and active? For ourselves, we can answer, never. In the longest, the most fair-seeming narrative of a life, we have always found something deficient, something unsatisfactory, something which we cannot reconcile, or which it is impossible to believe. Much as we grieve, we do not wonder at this; for we see where the difficulties lie; and these difficulties are so various and so nearly insuperable, that we consider the position of a conscientious biographer one of the most perplexing that can be conceived. Did he know intimately the character he is going to describe? If he did, how can he bring himself to notice the weakness, the follies, the peculiarities, which he desires should be forgotten in the grave, and which, to the eye of friendship, have already faded away into shades too slight to be caught ere they vanish? If he did not know him, how is he qualified for the task he has undertaken ?

Did he love the departed? If he did, can he form an impartial estimate of his virtues? If not, how came he by the knowledge of those finer qualities of the soul which can only be revealed to a kindred soul, and which yet must not be omitted in a delineation of the mind? It is obvious that no delineation of the mind can be complete. The obstacles are too many and too great. But true philosophy can argue from things that are known, to those which are not known; and here we have a method by which we may surmount many difficulties. For this purpose, the facts with which we are furnished must be true, the details faithful, the materials of unquestionable originality. If we cannot have the whole truth, we ought to be told nothing but the truth; and if this rule be observed, (as in common fairness it ought,) we will contrive to make out for ourselves whatever it is of material consequence to ascertain. But, can we ever feel entirely satisfied of the fidelity of the meagre relations which are afforded us? Alas! in very few cases; but in a few we may. How do we know, how can we distinguish such cases from the many? By the presence of a simplicity which carries conviction with it; by an impress of truth which cannot be counterfeited; by a verisimilitude analogous to that by which we are enabled to pronounce on the resemblance of a portrait without having seen the original. Where are we to look for such? Not in volumes of panegyric which assume the form of narrative. Not in quartos whose chapters contain one fact enveloped in a multitude of observations; where the author forgets his subject, while striving to immortalize himself. Not among the equivocations of timid friendship, or the mysterious insinuations of a writer who sports with the interest of his readers, and seems proud of knowing more than he chooses to tell. We know of one short memoir, and perhaps but of one, which is nearly free from the besetting sins of

biography. The subject is a peculiarly favorable one from its simplicity, which renders the paucity of materials of less importance than in almost any other case which we could point out. We refer to the Life of Newton, published by the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge. There is a lofty interest attached to this memoir, unequalled by any thing we have ever met with in the same department of literature; and though much of the charm no doubt resides in the majestic character of the mind of the philosopher, the biographer has no little merit in having forborne to impair the charm by the intrusion of any thing irrelevant. The impression of awe on the mind of the reader is powerful; and the tone of feeling is not let down by any appeals to feeling. There is no panegyric, and but little comment. The facts are stated with perfect simplicity, the author well knowing that the inferences from them are sublime. There is no attempt at inculcation from beginning to end; and yet, a finer series of moral lessons, a more powerful incentive to philosophic meditation, was, perhaps, never presented by moralist or divine. It is not probable that equal success would attend the same method in any other case; for such a subject as Newton can no where else be found. There is no other man whose life approached so nearly to a pure abstraction. No other man was perhaps, so free from the entanglements of various pursuit, from the intricacies of social relations, from the inconsistencies of jarring passions and irreconcilable desires. Every other man's life, external and internal, is a system of checks and counterchecks; and in proportion to the balance of these checks is the happiness of his lot, and the perfection of his soul. But Newton started off almost from his birth into a lofty career where there was neither opposition nor drawback; and by this means he was withdrawn from the usual relations to society, and stood so far apart that his biographer has