should ever be, the world will be a little better than it is at present, and will have made a perceptible advance towards that state in which talents will be little wanted. It is, at the same time, needless to say, that it would be gratifying that a son should have some qualifications for being an agent in the happy process. Physically, the chap is deemed, I understand, as promising as his neighbors. The young fellow has not yet been thought worth calling by any name. My sisters-in-law do not approve of either Adam or Cain, and one does not like to expose one's self to a veto a third time. If he is lucky enough to get any name at last, I should not wonder if it were to be, according to your injunction, John." He remained at Bourton nearly eight years. He had all manner of books and abundant leisure at command; and spent nearly all his time at work in what he called his "long garret." Towards the close of 1817, Mr. Foster left Bourton, and became a second time a resident and stated preacher at Downend, four miles from Bristol. Here his congregation was composed of the most opposite materials. Some were highly intellectual and cultivated, others perfectly rustic and illiterate; what seemed requisite for the one part, could be of little or no use to the other. He accepted the invitation to this place chiefly to try the experiment how he could adapt his discourses to such rustics -trying to combine perfect simplicity with novelty and originality. The attempt utterly failed; in six months this was so signally evident that he relinquished the situation. We well remember hearing Foster preach in this chapel some years later. His text was, "That ye be not slothful, but followers of them who through faith and patience inherit the promises." The sermon was one of his happy efforts clear, ingenious, striking, original, close to the conscience and the heart. Some were deeply moved, and the impression on our mind remains vivid to this day. But in the midst of his address he paused, and, pointing to the centre of the congregation, said, "I'll thank you to waken that person who is making so much noise there.' No wonder he gave up preaching to such a people, though some among them to the last continued his attached friends. While remaining at Downend, he published his "Discourse of Missions," and his essay on "The Evils of Popular Ignorance." In revising his essay on Popular Ignorance for a second edition, published in 1821, he labored with persevering pains-taking to make it as perfect as was within the compass of his ability. He did not rush into print with slipshod style, and jejune platitudes. He never made the inspiration of genius an excuse for indolence. His example affords another illustrious proof that without patient toil nothing great, nothing preeminent can ever be accomplished. "My principle of proceeding was to treat no page, sentence, or word, with the smallest ceremony, but to hack, split, twist, prune, pull up by the roots, or practise any other severity on whatever I did not like. The consequence has been alterations to the amount very likely of several thousands." "It is a sweet luxury this book-making; for I daresay I could point out scores of sentences each one of which has cost me several hours of the utmost exertion of my mind to put it in the state in which it now stands, after putting it in several other forms, to each one of which I saw some precise objection, which I could at the time have very distinctly assigned." Is it thus that our prolific writers nowadays strive with rigorous discipline to excel that they may instruct? Towards the end of 1821, Foster removed his residence from Downend to Stapleton, a village within three miles of Bristol, and here he remained till his great change came. In Bristol he was justly appreciated by a large circle of intimate and intelligent friends. At their request he consented, in 1822, to deliver a lecture once a fortnight in Broadmead Chapel. His auditory on these occasions was never large, but was composed of the élite of the various religious communities in Bristol and its vicinity. Knowing that he had a class of hearers who felt no ordinary interest in his extraordinary ministrations, his range of subjects was wider, and his mode of address more elaborate and ornate, than is usual in the pulpit. "As to the studious part of the concern," he says, "this one discourse a fortnight costs me as much labor perhaps as it is usual to bestow on the five or six sermons exacted in the fortnight of a preacher's life." To many of these weekday lectures it was our privilege to listen. How fitted they were to interest and instruct a select audience, must be apparent to all who peruse that portion of them committed to the press after his decease. But when Robert Hall settled in Bristol, the Broadmead lectures were brought to a close. "Now that Jupiter is come," he said, "I can try it no more." About this time Foster wrote his Introduction to Doddridge's Rise and Progress of Religion; an essay, in point of direct religious utility, the most valuable of all his works. Collins had reprinted Doddridge's book, and the whole large edition lay as dead stock in his warehouse for two years, waiting Foster's fulfilment of his promise: bad health and his "horror of composition" were the cause or excuse for his procrastination. "My mas. ter from Glasgow was here a few days since, and seemed to be content to put the cudgel in the corner, on finding that the thing was bonâ fide almost done. To think how much ado, of talking, fretting, pacing the room morning and night, pleading excuse from preaching and visiting, setting aside of plans for South Wales, &c., &c., and all for what? -a preface to Doddridge's Rise and Progress!" His pains in elaborating and finishing this composition were most successful; it will remain a fitting monument of his sincere piety and his singular mental power. When Robert Hall returned to Bristol to spend his last years in the scene of his early ministry, none more rejoiced in this event than John Foster. The Rev. W. Anderson, who became classical and mathematical tutor in Bristol College in 1825, was also a great accession to his social enjoyment. A more exciting intellectual treat could scarcely be desired than to meet these three in hard, downright, vigorous talk. None knew better how to "work a conversation." Foster writes to a friend :-" He is a vastly acute and doggedly intellectual fellow, that Anderson, and is intrepid enough not to have the slightest fear of the great man. I stand greatly in awe of him, but shall sometimes venture within reach of his talons, which are certainly of the royal tiger kind." Foster regularly attended Hall's ministry every Sabbath evening, when not himself occupied in preaching, and found it, "whatever it be in point of religious profit, a high intellectual luxury." They were often in each other's company, each having for each a profound and cordial admiration. Hall was fond of society as a soothing relaxation; Foster, as a means of mental excitement; and Anderson, with both, as a conversational associate, was "your man all round." All three were deeply interested in Bristol College, their Alma Mater. The students were therefore often invited to be present when these intellectual gladiators entered the arena. The memory of these scenes of many a long, stout evening's talk," in which was duly intermingled the "animated No," will be cherished to our latest day. We recollect once meeting Foster at Mr. Hall's. A large party was present, and the two great men, the pri mary attraction of the evening, were in high spirits. In the course of conversation, Hall was maintaining with great earnestness that he had no memory, that he could "remember nothing in past time"-illustrating his hyperbole with great beauty and plausibility. A lady present expressed her surprise; and, as a proof that Mr. Hall had a tolerably good memory, mentioned that she had heard him preach many years ago, and she had recently heard him preach the very same sermon. Mr. Hall first admitted the fact, but denied the inference. When a particular topic presents itself to the mind, it brings with it its train of thought, mode of illustration, and even the very words in which it is clothed; so that, though the sermons might be the same, it did not prove, he maintained, that he had any memory. He then left this ground, and insisted that the sermons were not the same; he knew they were not the same, and could not be so. Mr. Foster was sitting opposite listening to the discussion. At length he said, "Mr. Hall, you know, do you, that the sermons were not the same ?" 46 Yes, Sir," was the reply; "they were not the same; I know they were not." 'And, Mr. Hall, you have no memory!" he slowly and firmly retorted. At a glance the "eloquent orator" saw where he was. His cheek flushed, his eye flashed, and his lips poured forth a torrent of burning declamation. Foster sat imperturbed till the volcano was quiet; then dryly said, "You know, Mr. Hall, that the sermons were not the same." On the occasion of Mr. Hall's decease, in 1831, no one felt the irreparable loss more than Mr. Foster. He had a sense of privation partaking of desolateness." "As a preacher, his like or equal will come no more." "The chasm he has left can never be filled." Foster was asked to preach Hall's funeral sermon; but, being under medical interdict at the time from all public speaking, he declined. He paid, however, a worthy tribute to Hall's memory, in his "Observations on Mr. Hall's Character as a Preacher." It was now with Foster the autumn of life. The "sere and the yellow leaf," and the rapid loss of coevals and friends, made him see and feel that the allotment of his earthly journey was rapidly drawing to a close. He lost his only son, a most promising youth, in 1826. Mrs. Foster died in 1832. He was absent at the time of her death, and felt the stroke keenly. "It excites a pensive emotion," he writes at the time, "to take back, just now, some small things which I left in her keeping when I set off for Cheltenham; and still more so, to receive back unopened two letters | crasy; thoughtful, penetrating, pensive; unwhich I wrote to her, of a consolatory nature, mistakable traces of wit and sarcasm; all within the last three days that I was at Sta- radiated with benevolence. His keen eye pleton, both of which arrived here after she glanced over his spectacles charged with had departed, but, therefore, ceased to need thought; his phrenological developments, human sympathy and consolation. I am not with their shaggy covering, Hall used to sure that I shall ever open them." In 1833, designate a "mountain enveloped in a cloud." his most valued friend, Anderson, was com- His address was natural and easy; his words mitted to the grave. His old and excellent idiomatic and simple; his tone of voice deep friend, Hughes, followed soon after. To a and muffled; no facile flow of easy thoughts, friend he wrote about this time," Do you dressed in polished diction, and graced with both fairly and fully take to it that you are the delicia of voice and gesture; with homely old people? I can now and then, in parti- phrases, and simple tones, and struggling cular circumstances, detect myself in a cer- utterance, he brought out sublime conceptain sort of reluctance to recognize that as to tions, made graphic, but not gaudy or gilded, myself. I dare not assert that the most mu- by his apt figures and boundless fund of sical notes that I could hear would be 'Old suggestive associations. In his dress he Foster,' a designation which, though I may was plain almost to a fault. He had a not happen to hear it, I daresay slides into strong dislike to the "cleric habit," and the colloquial speech of those who have to often preached in "colored clothes." We make reference to me, notwithstanding there remember on one occasion, when returning being no younger male branch of my family from a public meeting where a paper of his to make such epithet necessary for distinc- had been read to the assembly, and excited tion." His last literary effort was an article universal admiration, meeting him in the on Polack's "New Zealand," which appeared crowded thoroughfare of the city, carrying in the Eclectic Review for July, 1839. a large parcel, and so habited, that a stranger might have taken him for a common porter. Any thing like finery in dress he could not endure. A young spark aping the "exquisite" could not be long at ease in his presence; and our fair sisterhood were sometimes shocked at hearing gentle hints at "ambulating blocks for millinery;" still, modesty, simplicity, and sincerity he always treated with respect and inspired with confidence. In December, 1841, he was attacked with bronchitis "a visitation," he says, "which came as a very strange one to a man who had not, for fifty years, been confined to bed a single day." About the beginning of 1843, he had several attacks of indisposition which confined him to his house for weeks; still he manifested a deep interest in public affairs, especially in the vexata quæstio of national education. His last appearance, on any public occasion, was at the annual examination of Bristol College in June. In September he took to his room, which he never again left. On the Sabbath previous to his death, while a friend was reading to him one of Doddridge's Sermons, he fell asleep; on awaking he said, in a tone very expressive of grateful feeling, ""Tis a thankless office to read to sleepy people." About six o'clock on Sabbath morning, October 15th, 1843, an old faithful domestic entered his room, and found his spirit gone. His arms were extended, and his countenance was tranquil, as if in sweet repose. He had expired but a little time previously; only his forehead was cold. Such was the career of John Foster. He has told his own tale, as much as was possible in our limited space. This we preferred, as more interesting and instructive to our readers, than a jaunty critique on his genius and writings. His countenance was strongly indicative of his mental idiosyn To the end of his days he had an intense sympathy with nature. He took great delight in flowers, especially the more delicate, retiring, and minute. He watched for the first appearance of the snowdrop, the crocus, and the primrose. He seldom gathered flowers, disliking to occasion their premature decay. Colors of all kinds were his delight; whether delicate, or dazzling, or sombre, they had over him a kind of fascination. He had great susceptibility of "sky influences;" dreary weather weakened his faculties and depressed his spirits. He had, technically speaking, no ear for music, but was passionately fond of grave, solemn, mournful melody. Music had a mighty power over him, inspiring almost every description of sentiment. He preferred instrumental to vocal music; the organ was his favorite instrument. Of books he was omnivorous. He purchased them with lavish profusion, the most expensive editions, the finest works in gra phical art, and had them bound in the most costly manner. It was not for vanity or ostentation, or a passion for making a library, but merely the attraction of one fine or valuable book after another, which he could not resist. Old Conscience, he tells us, often remonstrated; and his blood boiled ten times a day when he thought of the money swallowed up in the costly piles and ranges of his study. Seeing, one day, some volumes arranged so as to exhibit their exterior to the greatest advantage, he said, "I'd put those books elsewhere; I've a proud modesty that disdains show." Show in Foster's study must appear to all who ever knew that sanctum as a perfect solecism. He called it his "den," and a very rare occurrence it was for any one to get a glimpse into the interior. Once, as a great favor, Foster yielded to the solicitation of a curious literary acquaintance to have a look of inspection into his den, of which, he told Foster, he had heard frightful reports, made on surmise. The result we give in Foster's own words: "Though I assured him, in the way of preparation, that they could not, though made on conjecture, without actual knowledge, have exceeded the truth, he apeared fairly taken aback at the spectacle, and muttered, 'This is chaos indeed!'" like a magician." This latter description was not inapplicable to himself. The powers of Coleridge were probably more imposing than his own. That genius often soared so high, and invested himself with such brilliant clouds, that he became unintelligible to his hearers, if not to himself. Not so with Foster. He never lost himself in, or amazed his associates, with "subtlety attenuated into inanity." With a mind of such originality and opulence as his, he could have discoursed "eloquent nonsense,' and made the weak wonder and stare. He was too much of a man and a Christian to stoop to such folly. In mixed company he was not forward to talk; but when in congenial society, as with a magician's wand, he could summon, from all points of the compass, the most profound thoughts, in the happiest and rarest combinations, illumined and adorned with the richest and most appropriate imagery. In his best days conversation was to him a kind of college exercise, by which he trained his own mind, and disciplined his companions. At repartee he was never at a loss. He once called the world "an untamed and untamable animal;" being reminded that he was a part of it, he rejoined, "Yes, Sir, a hair upon a tail." To a person who was praising somewhat fulsomely the piety of the Emperor Alexander, he replied gravely, with a significant glance, Yes, Sir, a very good man-very devout: no doubt he said grace before he swallowed His conversational powers were of the first order. Speaking of Robert Hall and Coleridge, Foster observed, "Hall commands words like an emperor; Coleridge | Poland!" From the North British Review. PAST AND PRESENT POLITICAL MORALITY OF BRITISH STATESMEN.* PROBABLY few great philosophic states- | men-few men, that is, who had acted intimately in public affairs as well as contemplated them from the closet-ever quitted the stage without a feeling of profound dis 1. History of England, from the Peace of Utrecht to the Peace of Versailles. By LORD MAHON. vols. London, 1854. 7 2. Memoirs of George Bubb Doddington. London, 1785. couragement. Whether successful or unsuccessful, as the world would deem them, a sense of sadness and disappointment seems to prevail over every other sentiment. They have attained so few of their objects,-they 3. Memoirs of the Court and Cabinets of George III., from original Family Documents. By the DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 2 vols. London, 1853. 4. History of Party. By GEORGE WINGROVE COOK, London, 1886. have fallen so far short of their ideal,-they | hards;-what feeling is strongest in your have seen so much more than ordinary men mind as you look back and look forwardof the dangers and difficulties of nations, and hope or despondency for your country and of the vices and meanness of public men. the world-contempt and disgust, or affection The work to be accomplished is so great, and and esteem, for your fellow-men?" His rethe workmen are so weak and so unworthy, ply was, as nearly as we can recall it, this :-the roads are so many, and the finger-posts I do not feel that my experience of men so few. Not many Englishmen governed so has either disposed me to think worse of them, long or so successfully as Sir Robert Peel, or or indisposed me to serve them; nor, in spite set in such a halo of blessings and esteem; of failures which I lament, of errors which I yet shortly before his death, he confessed that now see and acknowledge, and of the present what he had seen and heard in public life had gloomy aspect of affairs, do I despair of the left upon his mind a prevalent impression of future. On the contrary, I hope; I see gloom and grief. Who ever succeeded so glimpses of daylight; I see elements of ressplendidly as Washington? Who ever en- cue; I see even now faint dawnings of a betjoyed to such a degree, and to the end, the ter day. The truth I take to be this :-The confidence and gratitude of his country? march of Providence is so slow, and our desires Yet," says Guizot, "towards the close of are so impatient,—the work of progress is so his life, in the sweet and dignified retirement immense, and our means of aiding it so feeble, of Mount Vernon, something of lassitude and sadness hung about the mind of a man so serenely great, a feeling, indeed, most natural at the termination of a long life spent in men's concerns. Power is a heavy burden, and mankind a hard taskmaster to him who struggles virtuously against their passions and their errors. Success itself cannot wipe out the sorrowful impressions which originate in the conflict, and the weariness contracted on the scene of action is prolonged even in the bosom of repose.' 66 Mirabeau, Barnave, Napoléon, La Fayette, morts dans leur lit ou sur l'échafaud, dans la patrie, ou dans l'exil, à des jour très éloignés et très divers, sont tous morts avec un même sentiment, un sentiment profondément triste. Ils ont vu leurs espérances déques, leurs œuvres détruites. Ils ont douté du succès de leur cause et de l'avenir. Le roi Louis Philippe a régné plus de dix-sept ans. J'ai eu l'honneur d'être plus de onze ans son ministre. Si demain Dieu nous appelait à lui, quitterions-nous cette terre bien tranquilles sur le sort de notre patrie ?"t With these passages fresh in our recollection, we recently ventured, at the close of some long conversations with a retired philosopher and statesman, who, for many years, was the first minister of a great kingdom, to ask him the following question :-" You have lived through some of the most interesting and troubled times of human history; you have studied men contemplatively, as well as acted with them and governed them; you have long had the fate of your own country, and a portion of that of Europe, in your the life of humanity is so long, and the life of individual men so brief, that what we see is often only the ebb of the advancing wave; and thus discouragement is our inevitable lot. It is only history that teaches us to hope. No! I feel no disgust, no despair; my paramount feeling is simply a sense of personal fatigue. I am weary of the journey and the strife. Ego, Hannibal, peto pacem.' Yet the statesman who spoke thus had witnessed stranger catastrophes, had encountered deeper discomfitures, had steered through mirier ways, had witnessed more cruelty, more cowardice, more tergiversation, more corruption,-had seen more splendid glory tarnished, more gorgeous hopes frustrated, more brilliant promises belied, than any previous period of modern history could have displayed; but he was profoundly acquainted with the past annals of other countries as well as of his own; and one of the most unquestionable and encouraging facts which these annals bring out into day, is full of promise and of consolation, viz.; the gradual improvement in the character of public men,-the higher standard of morality they set before themselves,—and the far greater purity which the world exacts from them than formerly. This is seldom perceivable from year to year not always even from generation to generation-not always and at all times in every country--but no one who compares age with age will hesitate to record it as one of the great truths of history. And in no country does it stand out in such clear relief as in our own; and all will acknowledge, that no surer indication and no more powerful instrument of national improvement can exist, than the moral progress of the men to whom the na • Sketch of the Life of Washington, by M. Guizot. tional destinies are committed. + De la Democratie en France, 1849. We need not go so far back for comparison |