find this tedious detail has precluded me from subjects more interesting and more mutual. . . . . I felt a propensity to smile at your confession of the wane of the sentimental fire, till checked by a most mournful consciousness of something similar in myself. Indeed, indeed, it is too soon. . . . . When sometimes apprehensive that fate means to deny me the sweet ambling circle of love and domestic felicity, I almost resolve to assume the stalk sublime of the hero adventuring to carry humanity amidst savage nature in some distant clime. . . My mother is not greatly altered from what she was some years back; but my father is rapidly declining, by a painful course, to the grave. If I were not too proud to solicit what I do not deserve, I should breathe a warm, a very warm wish, to hear from you soon again. The first step of generosity is probably the easiest. Give me a detail at least as copious as the example furnished in this. Bristol has lost the interest it held in my mind, by the successive defection of all I most esteemed there. . . If you know any congregation, of the description hinted above, in want of a preacher, I shall take it as kind if you will just mention it." While at Dublin, Mr. Foster resided with the late John Purser, Esq., and endeared himself to all the inmates, especially to the young people and the domestics. He often read to the family in the evening; generally works of fiction. Mrs. Radcliff was a very great favorite, and the translations of Schiller. The impression he gave of himself to one of his young companions was that of "a condescending friend who was desirous of putting their mental machinery in motion." At Cork, though his stay was short, he was much admired, and his abilities were more highly estimated than at Dublin. The following "Journal of three days," originally written at Dublin in 1793, but transcribed by Foster in 1796, when he consigned many papers of former years to the flames, will be read with interest, as a record of his interior sentiments: Dec. 6, 1793. Reason, dignity, approaching death, concur in the solemn command, " Delay no longer!" I obey, and my soul shall sleep no more. Can time a month hence be more valuable than time now? or if it should, will the time that shall end the month, be the same that now passes in the beginning of it? Why then should any of the moments, which are all beyond price, be lost? Let them be lost no longer. Passing and insignificant are the circumstances of exterior life. The man that seeks the object and the felicity of human life only in eating, drinking, sleeping, dressing, traffic, walking, resting, had better never have been born. But the internal life, the life of the immortal spirit, is all-important. Who would not wish to raise it to the loftiest pitch of improvement and felicity? I feel myself entrusted with the education cf my mind; and attention cannot be too solicitous. 'Tis determined to stimulate, to guide, to watch, its operations. The object is, to acquire habits of thinking, observation, devotion, and converse. It will be useful to record the degree of success; at least make an experiment of one month. Well, the day is gone. Though it has not done much, it has given proof that much may be done. The world of possible improvements is truly boundless. When I look over the immense plain of nature and man, and see so many thousand objects capable of suggesting new and interesting trains of thought-so many tracks which spirits unembodied seem alone to have trod, how I pity those who are content to confine themselves exclusively to the stupid bustle of business, or who, anxious for intellectual pleasure and wealth, seek them only in the tedious dullness of common-place writers. But the day has gone, and it has not extinguished my hopes, though it has but imperfectly realized my plan. I rose before eight, dressed, and went out to walk. The walk pleasing, though not fertile of sentiment or reflection. How great still the difficulty of fixing attention. I noticed drops of rain falling on a sheet of water. They have but the most transient effect on the water; they make a very slight impression of the moment, and then can be discerned no more. But observe these drops of rain falling on a meadow or garden; here they have an effect to heighten every color, and feed every growth. Is not this the difference between the mind which the infinitude of sentiments and objects in this great world can never interest or alter, and that mind which feels the impression, and enriches itself with the value of them all? Those things are among the first rights of man, which all men absolutely need; as food. Men assert the right to eat with the greatest constancy, and if opposed, with the utmost vehemence. Perhaps nothing so often raises quarrels among children. In every age men have been ingenious, industrious, or knavish, in order to eat. Frequently, too, for this they have been cruel, and often they have fought. As life cannot be sustained without eating, most men would risk even life, in order to obtain meat, when it cannot be gained without difficulty or danger. Some men, like certain dogs, see the approaching opportunity of mischief with an equivocal and frightful expression in their countenances, produced by the mingling feelings of pleasure and malignity. Art can sometimes give to the looks of deadly hatred a certain tinge of blandishment, which empowers them to fascinate while they alarm. They terrify while they allure, and yet allure while they terrify. Some serpents have the power by their eyes of charming birds, mice, &c., into their mouths. I have observed that men of business who pass their lives in the town, when they incidentally meet one another, or their other acquaintance, wear an air that looks like notice without attention. They see a person as they see a post, without the slightest feeling of concern, without any movement of mind that acknowledges an interest in his existence, or his case. .... I walked and observed the pensive, most interesting remains of the departing Autumn; noticed the singing of birds, a distant landscape, and miserable-looking men at work; returned, employed my mind on various subjects and fancies, without result, and made several attempts to study letters, without success; read nothing but newspapers. In the evening from seven o'clock till between eight and nine, at the prayer-meeting in Swift's Alley; from that time till between eleven and twelve, on a visit; most of the company very insipid; took no part in the conversation, which, however, was plentiful, but was much amused with observation. But, indeed, is it right to be amused with the folly of beings who ought to be wise? One part of the circle was composed of ladies. . . . I listened to their chat. . . . . But though full of transitions, it was so rapid and incessant, that philosophic observation was somewhat baffled. . . . . I think I heard not one sentiment. There was a long dispute whether a particular house in the town had a door on a certain side. I contemplated with a degree of wonder. I thought, Have you no ideas about realities and beings that are unseen? about the eternal Governor, and a future state? Is this all you find in life, and all by which you fortify yourselves against death? I wish I could have formed a clear conception of the situation of their minds,—that I could be privy to their serious reflections, if they ever have such, or if not, discover how they escape them. The gentlemen talked on forgery, trials, criminals, instances of murder, extent of the laws, priests, and the war. The most awful of names was sometimes taken in vain. The company was less at supper. The talk turned on harvests, salmon, the cunning and familiarity of dogs, goats, tame deer, &c. There was a disagreeable country gentleman there. No urbanity in his manners; his address blunt and abrupt; his visage hard, and unmodified by sentiment, as if it were carved on wood. . . . . He talked much, and told trifling stories. He said that in the spring months he had seen wheat growing in the woolly backs of sheep, and shooting up green. These sheep had been sometimes in the threshing-floor, where the corn probably got into their fleeces. Came home and closed the day. Dec. 7. Saturday night; must I exclaim “ Diem perdidi?" Whether I have lost this or not, I believe I have not saved so many as the man who uttered that regretful sentiment. I rose somewhat earlier than usual. With conscious pain I neglected prayer till late in the day,late indeed! Did not walk all the day; passed most of it in a mixture of listless fancies and painful reflections. Another unsuccessful attempt at epistolary writing. Surely my mind is declining into absolute sterility. Toward evening read over again part of Dr. Moore's "Journal of a Residence in France." Have lately seen elegant por traits of some of the great Conventionists, and still fall asleep and awake with their images and their names on my fancy. Wish to emulate them in some important respects. . . . . Adjusted some of the exteriors for to-morrow. But what has become of the most important part? I hope the last great day will have better days than this to disclose, in the account of my life! Dec. 8. Sunday night. I hold in recollection the first sensation that I felt on awaking (about seven o'clock), and I see something guilty connected with it. It quickly struck me, "I have to preach to-day;" and the thought was unpleasing. It ought not to be thus. In part the reason was, I suppose, that I had not yet begun to form either of my sermons. I sat up in bed awhile, and caught some very considerable ideas. Ascended the pulpit at the usual time. My text, " And Pilate said, What is truth?" My mind fertile and expansive. . . . . After it, went to see a respectable friend confined at home. . . . . Had just an hour to study my afternoon sermon. It was tolerably sensible and pertinent, but tame. In the morning I was on wings; this afternoon, only walked. Some of the sentiments, however, had the merit of being proper, without being common (Matt. v. 8). At seven o'clock heard a sensible sermon from young Feltus. Took particular notice of the small drops on the damp wall, each of which collected a few oblique rays into a focus. Feel a disposition to continue a preacher, and to excel .... Foster returned once more to Yorkshire, in February, 1796, where he continued till his removal to Chichester. LETTERS. X. TO MR. H. HORSFALL. Newcastle, Sept. 20, 1792. What an insipid thing this world of mankind is! How few we find whom we can at all wish to make one's intimate, inseparable friends! How trifling, too, are the efforts and productions of the human mind! I often wonder how it happens that my own mind, or any other mind, cannot any moment blaze with ideas superior to the most admirable of Young or Shakspeare. The whole system of human attainments, pleasures, and designs, sometimes strikes me as a confused mass of inanity. Almost everything carries some glaring mark of deficiency or meanness. Ought not love, for instance, in order to deserve any regard, to be equal for a perpetuity, to the inexpressible delight of some peculiarly auspicious moments, which return perhaps seldom in a person's life; and though they entrance the heart, wound, by instantly quitting it. . . . . My friend, I believe we must tread a little longer the dull round; the day will come that is destined to set our souls at large. Happy that the soul possesses one power-Immortality; which, though it seems at present to slumber in the breast, will at last awake in full vigor, and take vengeance on this dull life, by bursting in a moment the hated chains that bind us to it. The day is short and wintry, but yet let it be improved. Let us take all its advantages before us, and we shall not regret the desert we thus leave barren behind; nor shall we dread to see the close approaching. ・ ・ ・ .... XI. TO MR. H. HORSFALL. Newcastle, Oct. 2, 1792. . . . You are now, I believe, in the last of your three years. I suppose you sometimes think of prospects; and probably you have not often very clear ones. We must be both flung into the world, and perhaps very sufficiently tossed about. I often wonder where or how we shall in the event settle and rest. But let religion be the leading principle, and leave the rest, not to fate, but to God. I am totally unable to give you any satisfactory account of myself, or my present situation. I am one of those who can make themselves tolerably easy everywhere. I am well-treated, and have every accommodation that can be wished. But |