The writer of his own life has, at least, the first qualification of an historian, the knowledge of the truth; and though it may be plausibly objected that his temptations to disguise it are equal to his opportunities of knowing it, yet I cannot but think that impartiality may be expected with equal confidence from him that relates the passages of his own life, as from him that delivers the transactions of another.

Certainty of knowledge not only excludes mistake, but fortifies veracity.  What we collect by conjecture, and by conjecture only, can one man judge of another’s motives or sentiments, is easily modified by fancy or by desire; as objects imperfectly discerned take forms from the hope or fear of the beholder.  But that which is fully known cannot be falsified but with reluctance of understanding, and alarm of conscience:  of understanding, the lover of truth; of conscience, the sentinel of virtue.

He that writes the life of another is either his friend or his enemy, and wishes either to exalt his praise or aggravate his infamy:  many temptations to falsehood will occur in the disguise of passions, too specious to fear much resistance.  Love of virtue will animate panegyrick, and hatred of wickedness imbitter censure.  The zeal of gratitude, the ardour of patriotism, fondness for an opinion, or fidelity to a party, may easily overpower the vigilance of a mind habitually well disposed, and prevail over unassisted and unfriended veracity.

But he that speaks of himself has no motive to falsehood or partiality except self-love, by which all have so often been betrayed, that all are on the watch against its artifices.  He that writes an apology for a single action, to confute an accusation, to recommend himself to favour, is, indeed, always to be suspected of favouring his own cause; but he that sits down calmly and voluntarily to review his life for the admonition of posterity, or to amuse himself, and leaves this account unpublished, may be commonly presumed to tell truth, since falsehood cannot appease his own mind, and fame will not be heard beneath the tomb.

[1] It is somewhere recorded of a retired citizen, that he was in the
    habit of again and again perusing the incomparable story of Robinson
    Crusoe without a suspicion of its authenticity.  At length a friend
    assured him of its being a work of fiction.  What you say, replied
    the old man mournfully, may be true; but your information has taken
    away the only comfort of my age.

 —­Pol, me occidistis, amici,
  Non servastis, ait; cui sic extorta voluptas,
  Et demtus per vim mentis gratissimus error.  HOR.  Lib. ii.  Ep. ii. 138.

No. 85.  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 1, 1759.

One of the peculiarities which distinguish the present age is the multiplication of books.  Every day brings new advertisements of literary undertakings, and we are flattered with repeated promises of growing wise on easier terms than our progenitors.