surprise at your letter which informed me he was still detained. And I was exceedingly struck with the memorable circumstance of his pointed and solemn appeal and questions to his brother. Such an explicit manifestation, such a prominence of Christian principle and faithfulness, was worthy of a spirit just ready for its flight into eternity-into heaven. At the same time, it could not but be a pensive gratification to me, that anything of my writing should be implicated with this impulse of pious avowal, and zeal, and fraternal affection. You requested me to write. My dear sir, pardon me that I delayed, till the second letter with a black seal brought the evidence, that all your feelings would be for a while sacred to the dead and to heaven.

I seem as if I could hardly believe it for a fact, that my animated young friend will be seen no more on earth. If I were at Little Haven, every spot would give back his image to my mind, with a frequent return of the suggestion, "Will he not come? Why is he not here?" I can imagine that there would at moments be something almost like a prompting impulse to go and look for him, along the shore, or on the brow of the cliff. How vivid is my remembrance (it looks not like remembrance but presence),—of his elastic spirit, his illuminated look, his keen argument! in all which we seemed to foresee, in more advanced future years, a man of extraordinary and admirable intelligence, conspicuously superior to surrounding society, and, as we hoped, destined to be, somewhere or other, its light and benefactor. But the great Sovereign had a different appointment! And he who was your interesting associate, and so often mine, is now in the invisible world, and among the spirits of the just made perfect. That this was a wise and gracious appointment you are sure, amidst all the regrets which oppress your hearts, and for the present cast a shade over the whole scene of life. He who cannot err, and who could have bid him stay on earth, judged it better to say to him, "Come up hither;" and how happy that the youthful spirit was willing and prepared to go! And think how delightfully, how divinely complacent he is in the change! Assuredly, if he might return, he would say, with heavenly emotion, "No, my heavenly Father, no; not from thy presence, for all the world below." But you will feel irresistible assurance, that he thinks of you still, with sweet and never-dying affection, and anticipates the time when you will go to meet him, where you will never more lose him.

In Mrs. Hill's letter, it was extremely gratifying to see the pious resignation with which she was enabled to surrender to the Almighty the dear departing youth. I have often admired the calm fortitude of so gentle a spirit, and have thought how much cause she had to bless God for the possession of the supporting power of religion. That power I trust you will both effectually feel in this trying season. And also, that every consoling, and every salutary and instructive, influente will be granted to operate on the minds of my young friends, John and Catherine. They have, perhaps, never before had placed before them so plain

and affecting a practical demonstration of the necessity and sacred efficacy of religion.

....

With respect to your very kind invitation to Little Haven, I will just mention the state of the case. On account chiefly of John's health, my dear wife has been with him, and the two younger at Lyme, on the south coast, this six or seven weeks, and I have never seen them all the while. For more than a month I have been in hard labor in writing a great deal in various shapes, about our academy, in the way of statements and applications sent to various quarters to promote its interest, &c., so that a number of other matters of labor have been thrown into grievous arrear, and require to be now attended to. Happily, my wife's sister C. is with them, or it would have been imperative on me to visit them; for the situation of things is but a mournful one. In one word, we have little reason to expect any other than a fatal termination of John's long indisposition. It is decidedly consumption, and he is reduced to very great debility and emaciation, and has an ominous cough. He has been gradually growing worse during the last half year. My dear wife is a woman of the most pensive feelings, though with all the fortitude of reason, aided by religious thought. But I fear for her oppressed spirits. Now, my dear sir, the case being so, I feel that if I can leave home a week or two, it is to Lyme that I ought to go. They would feel there the claim, while regarding you with the very highest esteem, and taking, as my wife does, a very warm and sympathetic interest in your sorrows and loss.

....

CXXXVII. TO THE REV. W. ANDERSON.

1826.

MY DEAR SIR,-I was pleased to hear you say that you had not a Tacitus, of such an edition as to content you; but vexed afterwards that I should then and there have said one syllable of intimation that you did not need purchase one-as being sensible, the next moment, it might look so much like an air of having such affluence of books as to be able to turn them to the effect of conferring favors and gratuities. In very truth it was said from the momentary eager impulse to prevent your doing what you said you were intending, that is, to procure a Tacitus. The idea of the instant was, that you might be turning in at Strong's for that purpose, the first time that you should be going that way.

There needs not one word be said about this second Brotier's edition, edited by himself, with some additions to what was in his quarto, and at the same time some omissions of what he thought less essential. Several years since (though previously possessed of Valpy's reprint), I was tempted by the known character and the beauty of this, together with the fairness of the copy. There was another induc ment:-I anticipated the need of two good copies for the purpose of, pr bably, sometimes reading a book of Tacitus with the youth-who will soon read no more.

I

do not wish to retain in view what would be the constant memorial of this vanity and fallacy of hope.

It was with a melancholy sentiment that I lately took up-stairs and placed on the shelf a volume of Livy, a considerable part of which he had read with me during the earlier period of his fatal decline. I looked at the part bearing the marks of his having proceeded through it, and thought with deep pensiveness," he will never more look on these passages and sentences."

The Tacitus, I observe, I have long since taken the pains to preserve fit for use without binding, by pasting thin boards on the sides, pasting a strip of strong cloth, and covering it, across each top and bottom, and writing the inscription on the back. I like extremely the foreign look of this sort of paper-outside.

It may some time or other occur that a tolerable Latin Dictionary will be of opportune service to a student in the Academy, who may be ill able to afford the cost of the necessary books. Of three or four such I can well spare one, which you will please to make this use of whenever you may be aware of the proper occasion.

The Delphin Cæsar, too, as not furnishing any such help as to favor indolence, and as not being in any great degree incorrect, may in some instance or other be worth putting in the hands of such a student. I observe I have Livie's neatly printed Horace 12mo., but with no notes at all—if this should be a thing of any use, I can at any time put it in my pocket. Yours truly,

J. FOSTER.

CXXXVIII. TO HIS SON.

[Written to him when at Lyme, about two months before his consumption ended in death, on the 5th of Oct., 1826. J. F.]

MY DEAR JOHN,-For some weeks I have had the intention of writing you a letter, and have been afraid my so long omitting to do so would seem hardly kind. The prevention has been from a considerable quantity of other writing of a labored and tedious kind, together with many calls into society which I could not well avoid. But I think of you every day and hour. There has not been much hereabouts worth telling you, more than what I have mentioned in the successive letters to your mother; unless, indeed, it had been possible to convey the essence of the admirable sermons of Mr. Hall, which I have heard each Sunday evening. It is the regret of all hearers that that essence, so noble, should go off, and as it were expire, and be lost, like incense dissipated in the air;-lost, that is to say, except as far as it is admitted and retained for salutary effect in the minds of some of those hearers. Whether it be so retained in any of them, is known only to themselves and the omniscient Inspector. Last Sunday evening (the text being in Ecclesiastes, "There is a time for every purpose," &c.), he made his conclusion, with

extreme energy, in urging on young persons the absolute necessity of an instant, earnest attention to their highest interests, with perhaps ten repetitions of the question, "Is it too soon?" followed, in each sentence, with the most cogent and solemn representation why it is not too soon. One could have wondered, while listening, how it was possible that any of the young persons present, of anything approaching to mature years and understanding, could put aside at the time the force of the admonition, or go away and think no more of it. I wonder, my dear John, what you would have thought, and how you would have felt, if you had been there. He enforced that in season of health "it is time," that no time is to be lost;-with what augmented emphasis he might have added, that when health has given place to sickness, there is then, with still more pressing and invincible evidence, no time to be lost.

My imagination is often with you, and the little company, in your dwelling and its vicinity, which are so familiar to my mental view. The most conspicuous and favorite part, that is the Cobb, is now, I suppose, easily practicable as a little walk to any who are in possession of a little share of strength. At every thought of that, and of the more distant shore where the relics of unknown past ages so much abound, I am greatly sorry that you cannot repeat the little rambles thither which pleased you so much last year. I regret to think how painfully you must feel the difference, especially when you observe the two younger associates capable of their former activity and amusement. You have to exercise patience in being content with what you can enjoy of the scene, under the restriction of your present weakness, by sitting on the beach, floating sometimes, it seems, on the sea in a boat, and looking from the windows on the great expanse, with often a beautiful sky and horizon, a splendid sun-setting, and, some time since, the rising moon; which last I never saw with a more beautiful and striking appearance than I remember once at Lyme.

It has been pleasing to hear of any degree of alleviation which you have seemed to feel of your disorder; and very glad should I have been to hear of a more decided amendment. It has been well, and to me at the same time wonderful, that the heat, oppressive to all that I have met with except Dr. Marshman, has been so much attempered to your feelings. I would hope its continuance will be favorable to your regaining some little increase of strength against the season which the now sensibly shortening days are beginning to signify we must be again looking for. You have to acknowledge it as a favor of Providence, that you are thus permitted to have the trial of the best expedient that could be recommended for arresting the progress of your disease, together with such constant alleviating attentions, cares, and exemptions, while an incomparably greater number, who are suffering under such debility, are at the same time in circumstances of hardship, deprivation, and want. Think of them, if you are sometimes tempted to murmur at your lot. But do not let your thoughts be confined to the consideration of health, and the

means and wishes for its recovery. I would earnestly and affectionately press it upon you that there is a far superior concern requiring your attention. I have never written to you, I think, without reminding you of this. But in such former admonitions I was far from anticipating that the time would come so soon when suggestions of the most serious kind would acquire such new and, I may say, importunate force of application, from an extremely critical state of your health. By your invariable silence on this subject, and apparent care to avoid being brought into communication respecting it, I have always been left, and I believe your mother also, much in the dark as to what place it has held in your thoughts. I have feared to urge it upon you with formal, grave, and frequent repetition, lest such admonition should become repulsive to you, and so have the effect of making you disinclined to think or read on the subject. And knowing how much religious instruction, direct and indirect, has mingled through the whole course of your education, and being certain, therefore, that you must necessarily have much information on the subject, I have been willing to hope that you did sometimes think of it seriously, though reluctant to speak of it. How could I when you had so much knowledge, and when your mental faculties were advancing toward maturity,-how could I do otherwise than hope that you must be sensible what is the grand dictate of reason, of wisdom, of good sense; and were secretly giving some real attention to the greatest concern of existence? And if you did it in a measure when in health, I may surely hope that you do it still more seriously now. For, my dear John, you can hardly be unaware that your situation is exceedingly precarious, not only as to the recovery of health, but as to life itself. Your friends would not willingly, in your state of weakness and languor, distress you with presages; but it is proper you should be unequivocally apprised that the case is one of great danger, while it is a well-known fact that the disorder is peculiarly deceptive to the patients themselves, as to their anticipations of the issue.

What then, my dear boy, is your most evident, most demonstrative, duty and interest? Is there not an irresistible appeal to your reason and conscience? The voice of your heavenly Father himself speaks you. Surely you will not be inattentive to his admonitious and merciful invitations. Can the voice of the kindest human friend, or the voice from heaven itself, express to you a kinder or wiser sentence, than that you should apply yourself with all earnestness to secure the true felicity -the only real and substantial felicity on earth, supposing your life should be prolonged,-the supreme felicity of a better world, if the sovereign Disposer has appointed that your life shall be short.

Do not allow your thoughts to recoil from the subject as too solemn, too gloomy a one. If it were the gloomiest in the world, if it were nothing but gloomy, it is yet absolutely necessary to be admitted, and dwelt upon in all its importance. What would be gained, my dear John, and oh, what may be lost! by avoiding it, turning the thoughts from it, and