each other.

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unpublished, may be commonly presumed to tell truth, since falsehood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 informatio