the contemplation of rich and ravishing and enduring realities. An intimacy with the writings of such men, produces not only a purification and elevation of our moral nature, but exalts and enlightens our reason. Our moral tendencies twine about our reason, and impede its operations and distort its conclusions; and the prejudices which these propensities almost necessarily engender discolor the objects of our reasonings and infect our reasonings themselves. But this moral exorcism-this casting out of the spirits of darkness within us, clears away the mistiness that clouded our intellectual vision, and confers a wider range, and stronger grasp, and keener subtility of thought. From the perusal of many works we derive only an accession of knowledge; the intellectual man grows like a crystal, by accretion. But such writings impart power. They go down into the secret chambers of the soul, and with mysterious incantations, break the spell that benumbed and prisoned up' its glorious faculties, and bid it put on its native panoply, and gird itself for the stern conflict. Some leave us in a state of sickly languishment. Some beckon us to untried and forbidden tracts, and leave us on the threshold, with no torch of evidence to guide us in our wanderings.

But we would confine our attention to the utility of a judicious selection of bicgraphies. The doctrine we have endeavored to establish teaches the inefficacy of moral essays. Though this seems to us, a legitimate consequence, we would not interdict nor censure them. We believe them important auxiliaries to the cause of truth and virtue. For we deem it of the highest moment that the boundaries of right and wrong be clearly and definitively settled. The correctness of our conduct depends on the accuracy of our moral judgment, and if this judgment be not truly informed, there is an end of all propriety of action. Then we shall push our prejudices or first-formed and favorite notions too far; and shall narrow or widen the field of virtuous feeling.

The portraiture of a quality then, though it may illumine our reason may teach us where to go, does not possess intrinsically a renovating virtue-cannot stir up the deep feelings of the heart. Tell an unlettered man of the pleasure of philosophical investigation, of the rapture experienced on the discovery of a new train of reasoning or the developement of a new truth, and perchance he will be led to seek the enjoyment; but it will be the result of his confidence in your testimony, not of an appreciation of the delight you have described. But place in the hands of a youthful student, who can see nothing but barrenness in scientific pursuits, who manifests not (as in the other case supposed) an indifference merely, but a positive aversion to study-place in the hands of such an one, the memoirs of Milton, or Parr, or Jones, or White, the self devoted martyr of science; however listless he may be, the nature of the

subject will attract him, and as he goes on, he will note with the most intense interest, his hero's course, from the lispings of infancy to the expanding views of youth, and the profound erudition of manhood. As he enters their study and marks their self denying zeal, their nightly watchings, never tedious though they weary out the stars, their years of unremitting yet untiring worship at the shrine of wooing lore,' he will see more clearly and feel more deeply, that there is joy, deep, absorbing, pangless joy, in 'beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.' New principles will be called out. He will perceive the vastness of their attainments, and viewing in their light his own deficiencies, will be mortified by the humiliating contrast. He will see too that those attainments gave them a command over the opinions of men, and gained them an imperishable name; and the conviction of these truths will sound a loud appeal to his love of praise and power.

But the influence of biography as a stimulant to exertion does not constitute its sole importance. It not only gives us an onward movement-creates or revives a desire of higher attainments, but guides the motion-furnishes means for the gratification of that desire. It brings an individual before us, not only in his hours of joyance and inspiration, in the elation of hope and the exultation of victory; but also in the darkness of his soul, when he is stung by disappointment, crushed by despondency, and worn down by the agony of inward or outward conflict. We are admitted to the adyta of his feelings, and watch the flux and reflux of his opinions, the strong or feeble pulses of his passions. We find him at one time cautiously analyzing his thoughts and emotions, the philosopher and the moralist. Again we see him yielding to the impulses of a wayward nature, seduced, and prostrate. Again, we see him losing sight of lesser objects, fasten his eye on some bright spot in the dim future, and sinewed by the eagerness of desire, and spurred on by the incitements of hope, stretch forward; every muscle tense, every nerve strung, and as he nears the goal, we see the restlessness of almost satisfied wishes, and at last, the gladness of consummated expectations. In this we conceive lies mainly the practical superiority of biography over history. The historian presents us with only a tissue of heroic achievements or isolated exhibitions of magnanimity. These standing as they usually do, disconnected from their causes, are generally regarded as manifestations of superhuman power, which a peculiar combination of circumstances only can create, and which no other combination of circumstances can require. A great mind will seize upon these moral phenomena, and set them up as models. But a mind of ordinary dimensions demands that the whole machinery be developed, the internal workings of the soul, thoughts, emotions, habits, and principles of action. Biography meets and answers this

demand. History we are told, is 'philosophy teaching by example,' and the remark is true. But it teaches on too great a scale. It teaches us to regulate the affairs of nations-to govern others, rather than ourselves. It is chiefly occupied in the narration of events. It sketches character by a few rough strokes, and seldom descends to that nicer pencilling which we most need. Biography shows a panoramic view of the inner man-the budding and blossoming and maturation of the intellect, the dawn of the moral being, with its mild and delicate beauty and its noontide, with its severer graces and austere majesty.

In contemplating the character of an acquaintance, we are often constrained by our prejudices to palliate his foibles and even vices, or are induced by some hastily conceived disgust, to undervalue his excellencies; and by the subtle but resistless power of association, are compelled ever after to hold them in disesteem when found in others. But when we look upon a character displayed in a biography we look through no distorting and discoloring prism. We examine it dispassionately, analyze its features one by one, balance its excellencies and defects and suspend our admiration till reason has given her decision. This is the method of perusing character, by which only, we can be permanently benefited. When qualities are exhibited in our presence, we are impelled to their adoption or rejection, partly by prejudice and partly by an instinctive propensity to imitation. But when exhibited by persons with whom we have no immediate connexion, while by awakening our attention and engaging our sympathies, they possess all the efficiency of those which fall under our personal inspection, they have this advantage-they give us an opportunity to subject them to the test of reflection and experience, before we decide to transfer them to ourselves.

There is need of caution in the selection of biographies. For there are characters which ought never to be described, masses of putrefaction, from which steams up a loathsome smell of rottenness; and there are biographies, which, while in the estimation of discerning men, they have consigned the authors and subjects of them to everlasting contempt, have spread far and wide the defilement of error and the contagion of example. It would seem, that we could never embrace a corpse swollen and blackened by decay, whatever might be its adornments. But alas! there are passions in our nature which such revolting scenes may inflame, and their disguise, though thin, often cheats the unpractised eye of the hidden foulness, till the infection has been communicated. The lives of ordinary men present little that is interesting except to those who know them intimately. The biography of one is the biography of millions. It is true, that there is in the character of such men much that is worthy of imitation. It is true also, that in our pursuit of what is grand or

splendid in intellect or morals, we should not lose sight of the less dazzling, less obtrusive accomplishments, which charm us in the daily intercourse of life, and which are essential to the entireness, and constitute the finish of character. But minor virtues meet us in every corner of society. We need not have recourse to books to find them. But those sublime intelligences whose characters attract an intense, absorbing admiration, are beings of rare occurrence. Like the companionless eagle, each inhabits a solitary eyrie. Sometimes they are like stars radiating from their measureless distance above us, the light of wisdom and virtue, and moving on, harmonious and joyous, in their appointed and glorious orbits. Sometimes they come among us like comets-eccentric in their direction and ominous in their appearance-eccentric, for they stray from the ordinary sphere of human action, and wander on darkly and cheerlessly, in the dreariness of their chosen circuit-ominous, for they are sent in wrath, fiery, desolating plagues, that dry up the well springs of joy, and scorch and wither all life and beauty. It is from the exhibition of such characters that we expect the most extensive and permanent results. There is a persuasiveness in the example of such a man as Howard, an incitement to high and determined action which we could not, if we would, resist; and thousands, we doubt not, misled by an imagined excellence and greatness in the character of such a man as Napoleon, have wantonly sundered their strongest sympathies, and crushed their tenderest affections. But the most exalted are never free from the leaven of human frailty. Hence we learn that the ascent to virtue is steep and toilsome, and that dauntless resolves and tireless perseverance are necessary for its attainment; and we learn too that the prize which shines at the termination of the journey, and sheds its light along the rugged pathway, is a rich recompense for every effort and every sacrifice. darkest depravity too is always relieved by some bright trace, some ennobling feature. Here lies the danger. Could we find a being, whose life was a continuous expression of unholy passions, who had disrobed himself of all that distinguishes men from demons, and seemingly entered into a dark covenant with infernal agencies, we imagine that we should regard him with a feeling of unmixed scorn. But he has not cut himself loose from our sympathies, though he has renounced all title to affections. There is a grandeur in the fierce and the unrelenting consistency of his determination, in his utter disregard of lesser motives, in his callousness to ordinary inflictions, in his stern and proud defiance of the powers of goodness, that compels admiration and almost reconciles us to his enormities. There is a moral miasma rising from this association of rare virtues and vices almost too rare to be perceptible, which may generate remediless disease. Caution may prevent it; but we are too often

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heedless, and catch the disorder, while we are admiring its marble paleness or hectic flushings. We often find qualities which are vices only when in excess, to which, the world through an excess of charity, a generous though unjust feeling, has given names that are calculated to mislead the unwary reader. Wastefulness is denominated generosity,, levity and wassailing, spirit, and sometimes real crimes are overlooked as the effervescence of youth. These names are dangerous. They have a serpent's venom, with his beauty and power to beguile. That these errors are not exposed is the fault of the biographer. It cannot be justly charged on biography. He should delineate the character as it is, with all its lights and shades. But he need not become the pander of sin by veiling its hideousness. He should take a microscopic survey of the character he designs to portray, and transfer to his canvass a faithful likeness; every feature should wear its native complexion, and stand out in its original relief. A bird's eye view is not enough. We wish to be admitted to the cabinet of the soul and witness the deliberations, adjustment of plans, the mode of disciplining the intellectual forces, and marshalling them for combat; and after to go out to see the triumph or discomfiture of this mighty array of preparation. We love to stand behind the the scenes, and see the springs and trap doors-the process of the exhibition that had amused or terrified us. Hence we set high value on autobiography. We love to watch the movements of the mind in the heyday of youth, to trace in its pastimes indications of future greatness, and follow from its origin in some casual remark or almost unnoticed incident, through every stage of its developement to its consummation, the masterpiece of a giant intellect. We can often discern, or think we can through these expressions of unaffected feeling and unconcealed tendencies, in the boy, the star that is to rule the destiny of the man. We catch a glimpse of the spirit of poesy, in his lovely companionship with nature, in his quick perception of her numberless forms of beauty, in his passionate devotedness, in his keen sensibility, and in the free goings out of his affections. We see the future chieftain in the rough arbiter of youthful disputes, and the future philosopher in the boyish sceptic. We love to sit down with the author, as with a familiar friend and have our sympathies drawn out and our love won by his recital. It is thus that we peruse with thrilling interest Cowper's Memoir of himself the record of his strangely fitful emotions, his feverish fluctuations, his sudden transitions from the bright sunlight of unclouded reason, to the fearful gloom of insanity. We go out with him in his solitary walks, and when he rejoices in the kindliness of nature's influences, the 'soft south' breathes on us with a gentler impulse, the skies wear a livery of deeper azure, and the lark sings a more joyous hymn. We accompany him in his retirement, and in his dejection we are deject