nds of liberality, free discussion, and improvement, should feel inteIn such a work, whether they be Unitarians or not, and whether or ey approve of our other plans.

y years since, Unitarians had no magazine or regular periodical; now ave several: most of our public institutions have been formed and usted during that time; many new congregations have been raised, and al persons and families converted to Unitarianism in places where agregations exist; Unitarian publications have been widely circulated nous parts of the kingdom; and the Unitarian doctrine has made its to the minds of not a few persons among other denominations. If such ess has been made, and so much done, in such unfavourable circumces and under such great disadvantages, what may we not hope to effect icious, zealous, and persevering exertions in future?

R. WRIGHT.

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Doddridge'S CORRESPONDENCE AND DIARY.*

“Do not you think Biography a very delightful study, and as useful as it interesting?" is a question asked by all intelligent young people of their asible seniors; and there is no difficulty in anticipating the answer, for it always in the affirmative. There is perhaps no department of literature ich affords such varied instruction and entertainment to different orders of and. 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, me patron saint, through whom their homage is paid to a supreme object 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 ghest form; while members of the administration, and the orators of Pariament, 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 it's being removed.

The liability to deception of which we complain relates solely to the chaTacter 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 Correspondence and Diary of Philip Doddridge, D. D. Edited from the eriginal MSS. by J. D. Humphreys, Esq. 2 vols. 8vo. London, 1829. Colburn and Bentley.

The value of some histories of eminent men depends on the charac their external actions more than of their internal constitution. Whe read of scientific men, for instance, it concerns us more to know what, their discoveries and inventions, and how they made them, than how controlled their tempers and their families; and with respect to these in tions and discoveries, we are not in much danger of being deceived. forming an acquaintance with an eminent statesman, we follow his sch from their origin to their completion, and watch the progress of mea on which the welfare of millions depends, without being so anxious to af him into the retirement of his thoughts as in the case of the philosoph the saint, whose mind, and not whose fortunes, is the subject of our inqu Yet an acquaintance with the fortunes and achievements of eminent me of little importance in comparison with the knowledge of the internal chinery by which those achievements are originated and those forte modified; and in proportion to the dimness of our insight into this inte constitution does biography lose its interest and its value. The historie pious men and moralists are worth almost nothing at all, if the structur their minds is hidden from the reader; and as long as the revelation is par and the representation defective, the effect on the mind of the inquirer c not be purely beneficial. Has such a thing as a tolerably correct delineat of any one mind ever been offered to the public? Have we ever met w a representation of character supported by facts, at all approaching in fairn to those discussions of the characters of our friends which are held in cc versation while they are alive and active? For ourselves we can answ never. In the longest, the most fair-seeming narrative of a life, we ha always found something deficient, something unsatisfactory, something whi we cannot reconcile, or which it is impossible to believe. Much as grieve, we do not wonder at this; for we see where the difficulties lie; a these difficulties are so various and so nearly insuperable, that we consid the position of a conscientious biographer one of the most perplexing th can be conceived. Did he know intimately the character he is going to d scribe? If he did, how can he bring himself to notice the weaknesses, t follies, the peculiarities, which he desires should be forgotten in the gray and which to the eye of friendship have already faded away into shades t slight to be caught ere they vanish? If he did not know him, how is qualified for the task he has undertaken? Did he love the departed? he did, can he form an impartial estimate of his virtues? If not, how ca he by the knowledge of those finer qualities of the soul which can only revealed to a kindred soul, and which yet must not be omitted in a deline tion of the mind? It is obvious that no delineation of the mind can complete. The obstacles are too many and too great. But true philosop can argue from things that are known, to those which are not known; a here we have a method by which we may surmount many difficulties. F this purpose, the facts with which we are furnished must be true, the deta faithful, the materials of unquestionable originality. If we cannot have t whole truth, we ought to be told nothing but the truth and if this rule observed, (as in common fairness it ought,) we will contrive to make out ourselves whatever it is of material consequence to ascertain. But, can ever feel entirely satisfied of the fidelity of the meagre relations which a afforded us ? Alas! in very few cases; but in a few we may. How we know, how can we distinguish such cases from the many? By the pr sence of a simplicity which carries conviction with it; by an impress truth which cannot be counterfeited; by a verisimilitude analogous to th

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 favourable one from its simplicity, which renders the paucity of materials of less importance than in almost any other ease 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 irreconcileable desires. Every other man's life, external and internal, is a system of checks and counter-checks; 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 been enabled, by the absence of all intervening objects, to present us with a full portraiture, instead of a variety of hasty and deceptive sketches, snatched amidst the jostling of a crowd. If such advantages should be presented to any future biographer, we can only wish that he may be equally able to estimate and willing to improve them.

"But why," it is asked, “should biography be so generally defective, when men have the power of describing themselves? When men have only to look into themselves and back upon their past lives, why should they not tell us faithfully what they see and what they remember?" Because they cannot. If they have the will, they have not the nerve and if they had the nerve, they have not the power. Very few have the will to write an autobiography worth reading, because there is not one man in a thousand who is aware what are the truths which we most want to learn. We have abundance of lives written by actors, housebreakers, ladies, men of literature, travellers, and sailors: but their narratives are collections of facts of temporary interest, or of no interest at all, or of a kind of interest which bears no relation to the philosophy of mind or morals. But of philosophers or mo

ralists who have cast a new light from within on these great subjects of human inquiry, we have almost none. To Montaigne, indeed, we are largely indebted; and we allow that valuable hints are scattered among autobiographical works, slight glimpses into the dim vistas of human thought, which could not otherwise have been obtained: but they are few and tantalizing. If a man have sufficiently studied himself and others to know in what respects our knowledge is most deficient, and to wish to supply the deficiency, more courage is required than perhaps any one can command. It is painful enough to fix our gaze steadily on any foul stain or festering sore within, which is hidden from every other human eye; it is difficult enough to detect every slight obliquity, and to acknowledge to ourselves the permanence of any deformity which we have long laboured to rectify: and how can we summon courage to stand the examination of the public, to invite the careless observation of those who cannot feel with us, or the rigid scrutiny of some who will not spare us? The best parts of ourselves it is yet more difficult to expose, as the most exalted virtues are the most modest, and the most refined parts of the human machine are the most sensitive. We may heroically give ourselves over to dissection, provided the process be delayed till we are past feeling: but if our tender-hearted friends shrink from delivering us up even then to the operation, how can it be expected that we should begin the work upon ourselves, when every nerve is quivering and every touch is pain? It is impossible. We may unveil our faces, but we must leave it to others to lay bare our muscles and sinews. But even these difficulties are not the greatest. Much regard as we owe to our own feelings, we owe more to others; and our lives are so interwoven, the texture of any one mind is wrought of such various materials gathered from others, the relations of every individual are so complex, that no man can give a faithful description of himself without letting out many a secret which he has no right to disclose. If we consider for a moment how we should set about writing a history of ourselves, we shall find that so much of our character has been derived from the virtues of those with whom we live, and so much from their failings, that this consideration alone puts a seal on our lips, though we may be aware of the possession of some valuable facts which need not else be secret, and long to assist others with the experience which we have obtained from some peculiarity of circumstances whose results must be confined to ourselves through this restraint on the liberty of speech. We may give the results of our experience in conversation, in letters, &c., as general remarks; but in the form of biography, it appears impossible that any one involved in the common relations of society should present a faithful picture of the growth of his spiritual, or even the development of his intellectual part.

It has been often attempted to get rid of some of the peculiar difficulties attending the publication of a life, by delaying it till all the contemporaries of the person celebrated are dead. One point is thus gained; their feelings are spared; but the feelings of their descendants sometimes deserve as much respect as their own. Another point is gained; there is less danger of partiality, less temptation to colour and suppress; but, to counterbalance this advantage, there is commonly a deficiency of information, and (unless the subject be one of peculiar attraction) a failure of interest, when the scenes in which he acted are gone by, and the society in which he mingled has passed away. If, however, the character should be one of permanent attraction, and the circumstances of his lot such as men can generally sympathize in ; if the materials of every kind should be ample, and if they should be depo

I

sited with a biographer who is bold enough to use them without reserve, there is a hope that a very accurate knowledge may be obtained of a mind and character. Such a concentration of requisites is very rare; but we can no longer call it impracticable; for we have an instance of it in the case before us.

Our readers, perhaps, have been accustomed to suppose that they had a pretty intimate acquaintance with the character of Doddridge. Never were they more mistaken. It is true, we have many volumes of his works in which, as he was above all disguise, and as his mind was of a peculiarly ingenuous cast, his very soul appears to be revealed, and from which we seem to have the power of learning every thing about him, except those external circumstances which have been supplied in his biography by Orton. But we have all been in a great error; and however long the impress of his mind may have remained on our own, apparently complete and finished, we must yet submit to have it considerably modified. Innovation and change of this kind are somewhat painful; but we cannot fail to see that they are useful and right, not only on the ground that truth is always preferable to error, but because it is undeniable that much mischief has been done by partial representations of the character and views of pious minds; and by none more than by that of Doddridge. We speak warily when we say that minds of a cast like his own, tender, sensitive, to which devotion was a vital element, have been encouraged to an excitement of religious feeling, an overstrained exertion after objects too high for human reach, under which one of two equally fatal consequences has ensued-that either mind and body have sunk under a painful and protracted effort, or that an awful reaction has taken place-a chilling indifference has succeeded to intemperate rapture, and levity has been substituted for a forced seriousness. The heart of Doddridge was of that kind which all men love, and his example, therefore, was widely influential, as we trust it will long continue to be. His meek and tender spirit, his universal love for his race, his ingenuous simplicity, are universally endearing; his peculiar temperament fitted him for a life of devotion, and, united with his particular circumstances, strengthened him for a loftier flight into the regions of life and light than can be attained by all who strive to follow him there. We have in his works a faithful transcript of his emotions while under the influence of devotion: his biographer, Orton, represents him as ever under that influence; and we have hence imagined that his mortal existence was one lofty aspiration, his state of mind one unrelaxed effort of piety, more fit for the vigorous, unconsuming frame of the glorified body than for the frail and mutable constitution to which we are at present united. We have listened with delight and awe to the swelling tones of an instrument whose chords were finely strung; forgetting that " this harp of thousand strings" could not have remained uninjured in the mutable atmosphere of this world, if those strings had been for ever stretched. If never let down, they would have snapped; as we cannot but know from our experience of the mournful effects of religious excitement. Doddridge was as devotional as his works shew him to be. He was a fit example for us in the fervour of his piety, the unremitting influence of his principles, and the gentle virtues of an affectionate and ingenuous spirit. But if he had always been exalted above these lower regions, if he had been ever as a saint among men, he would not have been so fit for an example as we now find him to be; for a resemblance to him would have been thought, or (if attempted) would have been found, impracticable. It is, therefore, a relief to discover, as we now