ought not to be regarded as his. It may not be uninteresting to notice together the variations in the two hymns:

It is not generally known that Doddridge pursued for many years the practice of Watts—perhaps he derived it from him—of writing a hymn after each or many of his sermons, so that the volume of his hymns is a tolerably large one, numbering three hundred and forty-seven. Many of them have great evangelical tenderness and beauty; we do not remember that they ever depart from a good and correct taste; they never soar up to Watts’ daring heights, but they are often very sweet and exquisite; they are like the notes of a nightingale in the depths of evening shades, or sometimes like dove-like wings flashing near to the earth, but in the bright sunshine, “wings tipped with silver, or feathers of yellow gold.” And, perhaps, we appreciate rather more the frequent ecstasy of his hymns in the memory of the fact that the story of his own life shows him not to have been incapable of human passion.

To Doddridge we are indebted for a pleasing illustration of the early reception of Watts’ sacred verses; Southey has quoted it in his life of Watts; the incident shows that the hymns, in spite of the sneers of Bradbury, were hailed with much delight, as supplying a very great want, not only in public but domestic service. The letter from Doddridge is dated 1731.

“Till heaven is enriched by your removal thither, I hope, sir, to find in you a counsellor and a friend, if God should continue my life, and I cannot but admire the goodness of Providence in honouring me with the friendship of such a person. I can truly say your name was in the number of those which were dearest to me long before I ever saw you. Yet, since I have known you, I cannot but find something of a more tender pleasure in the thought of your successful various services in the advancement of the best causes, that of real, vital, practical Christianity. What happened under my observation a few days ago gave me joy with regard to you, which is yet so warm in my mind, that I hope, sir, you will pardon my relating the occasion of it. On Wednesday last I was preaching in a barn to a pretty large assembly of plain country people at a village a few miles off. After a sermon from Hebrews vi. 12, we sang one of your hymns (which, if I remember right, was the 140th of the second book). And in that part of the worship I had the satisfaction to observe tears in the eyes of several of the auditory, and after the service was over, some of them told me that they were not able to sing, so deeply were their minds affected with it, and the clerk in particular told me he could hardly utter the words of it.[27] These were most of them poor people who work for their living. On the mention of your name, I found they had read several of your books with great delight, and that your hymns and psalms were almost their daily entertainments. And when one of the company said, ‘What if Dr. Watts should come down to Northampton?’ another replied, with a remarkable warmth, ‘The very sight of him would be like an ordinance to me!’ I mention the thing just as it was, and am persuaded it is but a familiar, natural specimen of what often occurs amongst a multitude of Christians who never saw your face. Nor do I by any means intend it as a compliment to a genius capable of entertaining by the same compositions the greatest and the meanest of mankind, but to remind you, dear sir (with all the deference and humility due to a superior character), how much you owe to Him who has honoured you as the instrument of such extensive service. Had Providence cast my lot near you, I should joyfully have embraced the most frequent opportunities of improving my understanding and warming my heart by conversing with you, which would surely have been greatly for my advantage as a tutor, a minister, and a Christian. As it is, I will omit none which may fall in my way; and when I regret that I can enjoy no more of you here, will comfort myself with the thoughts of that blessed state where I hope for ever to dwell with you, and to join with you in sweeter and sublimer songs than you have taught the Church below.”

One of the most notable persons who crossed the life of Dr. Doddridge was Colonel James Gardiner: the stern soldier loved the gentle Doctor, and not less did the gentle spirit of the Doctor attach itself firmly to the stern soldier. Another instance of the singular hinges on which friendships are suspended. Doddridge wrote his life, and it created no little sensation, especially in those circles to which Colonel Gardiner belonged. One of the last letters of the Countess of Hertford to Dr. Watts refers so distinctly to this book and to the character of Doddridge, that it may appropriately find a place here:

It is impossible not to feel that, viewed from many aspects, Philip Doddridge must have been Watts’ most congenial friend. The largest portion of Watts’ work was done before they knew each other, but friendships founded in sympathy ripen very rapidly, and the difference of years is very slightly felt where there is a great and happy congeniality of hearts. Watts was not a glowing correspondent, but none of his letters are so tender as those to Doddridge, to whom he writes as his “dear and valuable friend,” and always his “affectionate brother and fellow servant,” and the letters warm greatly as the correspondence increases, Doddridge always looked up to, and spoke of, Watts in terms of extraordinary reverence and affection; in their work they were very similar; Doddridge’s nature was smaller than his friend’s, but in its measure it was very harmonious and perfect. Watts had a fine metaphysical sagacity, and the keenness with which he analyzed never interfered for a moment with the clearness of visions by which he stepped from the discrete to the concrete, and from parts to the whole; hence, notwithstanding his fair and catholic nature, he appears to have been much more absolutely dogmatic than Doddridge, and it was perhaps the defect of this great man’s teaching that from the fatal facility which brought him into contact with every class and shade of opinion, the lines of his more absolute creed were not fixed with sufficient distinctness: but from his tutorship there passed forth a variety of men who all delighted to confess their obligations to Doddridge,—Hugh Farmer, Andrew Kippis, Job Orton, Benjamin Fawcett, and, if not the most scholarly, that beautiful and well-known teacher, who realized perhaps beyond any his tutor’s spirit and his tutor’s peculiar power, Risdon Darracott. Such was Doddridge, without some notice and knowledge of whom a review of the life and times, the friends and labours of Watts would be incomplete.

One hundred and twenty years have passed away since Philip Doddridge died, but his name and many of his works are still as sweet and fragrant as ever. His “Life of Colonel Gardiner” is still one of the most interesting of religious biographies; his “Family Expositor” still holds its place in the family; his theological lectures are still an invaluable curriculum; his correspondence is full of entertainment and interest; his hymns are still sung in all our churches, and that to which we have referred, which ought assuredly to be spoken of as his, “O God of Bethel,” sounded the other day down the aisles of Westminster, as the body of Livingstone was lowered into the grave. Doddridge’s body, of course, was denied a resting-place at Lisbon by the civil and ecclesiastical authorities, but it was permitted to repose in the burying-ground of the English Factory. The great earthquake, which occurred shortly after, left his grave undisturbed, and it is a spot of holy ground unto this day.[28]