discourse. Those were memorable days at Broadmead, when the intelligent from all parts and all congregations of the city; when visitors from distant parts of the kingdom, and from foreign countries; when clergymen, members of parliament, barristers, authors, would be seen mingled in the breathless throng which hung on the lips of Hall. But the most striking object would be the high-piled forehead, and fixed, expressive look of Foster in the gallery on the preacher's left, where he usually stole in order to be out of view. Those days, too, passed away! The hand of death removed the preacher to the fellowship of the just, and shaded from view the luminary in which so many had rejoiced; and this event led to the last, and not leastbeautiful effort of Mr. Foster's pen, we mean his character of Hall as a preacher, in which, although many dissent from some of his criticisms, all must admire the splendour of the delineation, and the nobleness of spirit, with which one great genius speaks of another, who alone was worthy to dispute with him the palm of excellence. A few words more will dispatch the remainder of this imperfect sketch. Mr. Foster spent his remaining years in quiet and seclusion as before, except an occasional visit to his friends at Bristol. He also took a journey more than once to the metropolis, with an eye for its curiosities and paintings quite as eager as in his earlier days. At the anniversary meetings of the Bristol College, he would invariably be present, taking the deepest interest in the theological examinations, and in all that concerned the prosperity of the institution. We think that the very last time of his coming to Bristol, was to the examination in the summer of last year. He was then in infirm health, his gait more stooping, his step feebler; yet all hoped that his days would be prolonged, if in weakness, without suffering, for many months. His decline of strength, however, through the succeeding months, was rapid; and, although in the last week, death was not anticipated as so near, it became evident at the close of it, that he could not survive long. "On Saturday, October 14th, he complained of confusedness in the head and oppression of breathing. He was obliged therefore to decline his usual practice of hearing some one read to him, and requested to be left quite alone during the afternoon and evening. On retiring to rest, he steadily refused to permit any one to sit up with him, particularly desiring that all would go to bed as usual. An attendant went in, once or twice, to look at him in the course of the night, and towards the dawn of the sabbath morning, when he lay in a peaceful slumber. She went in, an hour after, and found him a corpse; his hands stretched out, and his countenance so tranquil as to make it unquestionable that his spirit was dismissed without a struggle, and probably without any suffering whatever." Thus, and, in many respects, how appropriately, did his departure take place! No strife with death, no lingering on the brink, nothing to break in upon the sequestered solemnity of the scene, under cover of the morning shadows, before the glare of the world had broken in upon his chamber, he silently hurried to join the assembly of the just! Ere his absence from the body had become known to his family under the same roof, his spirit was already among the glittering forms around the throne! Of his sole and peaceful confidence in the atoning blood of Jesus, through life and in his last moments, his writings, preaching, correspondence, conversation, furnish ample evidence. With what emphasis, with what a powerful significance of his own, does he express his dependence on the cross in his last letter to his friend Joseph Hughes! In a conversa tion which one of the friends he most his later years he came but seldom forth to the sanctuary, partly through ill health, partly also from a wish to employ his hours more abstractedly in his closet; nor can it be doubted that those hours which were lost to the communion of the Lord's people, he redeemed fully in a profounder worship at home. esteemed had with him, not many weeks before his decease, he enlarged in a tone of deep feeling on the grand necessity and value of the blood that cleanseth all sin. Some of his latest expressions were, when too weak to perform some intended arrangement," but I can pray, and that is a glorious thing." At another time he was overheard saying, "O death, where is thy sting! O grave, where is thy victory! Thanks be to God who giveth us the victory, through our Lord Jesus Christ." The character of Mr. Foster as a Christian shone forth with a purity rarely surpassed. Gifted with the richest stores of intellect, with wit for every theme, and a genius formed for the sublimest flights of speculation, his stedfastness to the truth as it is in Jesus, was in the implicit spirit of a child. Nor were his views the cold abstractions of a creed. They were vital and commanding realities. He evidently lived as beholding the things unseen and eternal. His humility was profound, his faith and hope those of a penitent at the foot of the cross. His piety manifested itself rather in the form of intense conscientiousness, than in enthusiastic zeal. Zealous he was for the truth, for the spread of the gospel, and the salvation of the world; yet as each child of God has his proper gift, the sanctities of piety were more the characteristics of Mr. Foster's excellence, than the ardour of enterprise. His integrity of character formed a solid rock of confidence on which his friends could always absolutely depend. Joined to the conscientiousness of his own character, there was, notwithstanding occasional severity, a spirit of consideration for the failings of others, and deep humility at the thought of his own short-comings. As a Christian, we have reason to believe, that devotion formed a main element of his being; not, again, the devotion of ardent feeling, but of reverential adoration. In Such was Mr. Foster. That he had his imperfections, he himself would be the first to acknowledge; but they, in great part, arose out of the constitution of his mind. Gifted with an eye which saw deeper into man than others, it would be strange if, in adverting to discoveries there, he did not produce to the light a more painful picture of its evils, occasionally, than was imagined before to exist, and thus his very perspicacity would sometimes tinge his discourse with satire and gloom. Yet none loved his species more, or hoped better of the destiny of the world. He has been censured for not having written more; and it was hoped to the last, that he must be preparing some mighty work for the behoof of posterity. It was felt impossible that a mind so formed to think, could waste existence in reading the thoughts of others. Yet we fear nothing remains for publication. In conversation with the friend before alluded to, he adverted to his having done no more, in a tone of regret which was becoming painful, and his friend changed the topic. No one felt the duty of laying out life for some grand purpose more than Mr. Foster. Few in the way of writing have done nobler things in redemption of such purpose. That he did no more, none regretted more sincerely than himself. But united with his transcendent powers, there was an apprehension of inadequacy to fulfil anything of lasting utility, which, as it formed the grand impediment to his exertions, must be admitted as a sufficient apology for his silence. He is now gone from amongst us, and we are better employed in pro fiting of the writings and example of piety he has bequeathed, than in unavailing regrets that he wrote no more. What he has done is not to be counted by the pages. He has lighted up a new world of thought. Every sentence is a text, every word a stimulus to intellect. Already his pages have formed more than one great writer. He has expanded and raised the intellectual hemisphere around us, and lighted it up with new brilliance. What he has written is not tentative; a reckless dashing on of sentences and words, in the chance of some form of meaning which shall have the effect of force, without the satisfying impression of certainty and completeness of view. All that Foster has written was thought out, and will remain. His writings are not merely a shrine of beautiful sentiment, at which distant genius will kindle its flame, but an oracle of truth which shall convince for ever, and modify human thought in all ages coming. The great luminary is gone, and the world around us seems darkened as with the shade of an eclipse. While he remained, we felt consoled in some degree for the removal of his companion in genius and fame. We could think of him as yet in our world, sharing a keen interest in its movements. We could think of him as at Stapleton over his books and amid his costly engravings, or pacing slowly in his garden. His tall form would rise up before us as when we last saw him; the dark grey frockcoat; the noble elevation of the forehead; the thoughtful eye and countenance; the gleaming, searching, glance occasionally cast over the spectacles; the deep, gurgling utterance; the rapid throng of language which broke at intervals from his lips; the gentle, emphatic tap on the round snuff-box held in his left hand; the easy cheerfulness of his manner; the benignant affability; the kind question and advice; all arise to memory, and re-form themselves into vision, but with colours which the idea of death, already approaches to blanch and obliterate. But his works remain: we can open the Essay on Decision of Character, and still converse with the mind of Foster. THE CELESTIAL RAILROAD. PART II. THE respectable Apollyon was now putting on the steam at a prodigious rate; anxious, perhaps, to get rid of the unpleasant reminiscences connected with the spot where he had so disastrously encountered Christian. Consulting Mr. Bunyan's road-book, I perceived that we must now be within a few miles of the Valley of the Shadow of Death; into which doleful region, at our present speed, we should plunge much sooner than seemed at all desirable. In truth, I expected nothing better than to find myself in the ditch on one side, or the quag on the other. But, on communicating my apprehensions to Mr. Smoothit-away, he assured me that the difficulties of this passage, even in its worst condition, had been vastly exaggerated, and that, in its present state of improvement, I might consider myself as safe as on any railroad in Christendom. At the end of the Valley, as John Bunyan mentions, is a cavern where, in his days, dwelt two cruel giants, Pope and Pagan, who had strewn the ground about their residence with the bones of slaughtered pilgrims. These vile old troglodytes are no longer there; but into their deserted cave another terrible giant has thrust himself, and makes it his business to seize upon honest travellers, and fat them for his table with plentiful meals of smoke, mist, moonshine, raw potatoes, and saw-dust. He is a German by birth, and is called Giant Transcendentalist; but as to his form, his features, his substance, and his nature generally, it is the chief peculiarity of this huge miscreant, that neither he for himself, nor anybody for him, has ever been able to describe them. As we rushed by the cavern's mouth, we caught a hasty glimpse of him, looking somewhat like an ill-proportioned figure, but considerably more like a heap of fog and duskiness. He shouted after us, but in so strange a phraseology, that we knew not what he meant, not whether to be encouraged or affrighted. the fabled brightness of the Celestial City lay but a bare mile beyond the gates of Vanity, they would not be fools enough to go thither. Without subscribing to these, perhaps exaggerated encomiums, I can truly say that my abode in the city was mainly agreeable, and my intercourse with the inhabitants productive of much amusement and instruction. Being naturally of a serious turn, my attention was directed to the solid advantages derivable from a residence here, rather than to the effervescent pleasures which are the grand object with too many visitants. The Christian reader, if he have had no accounts of the city later than Bunyan's time, will be surprised to hear that almost every street has its church, and that the reverend clergy are nowhere held in higher respect than at Vanity Fair. And well do It was late in the day, when the they deserve such honourable estimatrain thundered into the ancient city of tion; for the maxims of wisdom and Vanity, where Vanity Fair is still at the virtue which fall from their lips, come height of prosperity, and exhibits an from as deep a spiritual source, and tend epitome of whatever is brilliant, gay, to as lofty a religious aim, as those of and fascinating, beneath the sun. As the sagest philosophers of old. In justiI purposed to make a considerable stay fication of this high praise, I need only here, it gratified me to learn that there is mention the names of the Rev. Mr. no longer the want of harmony between Shallow-deep; the Rev. Mr. Stumblethe townspeople and pilgrims, which at-Truth; that fine old clerical characimpelled the former to such lamentable ter, the Rev. Mr. This-to-day, who mistaken measures as the persecution of expects shortly to resign his pulpit to Christian, and the fiery martyrdom of the Rev. Mr. That-to-morrow; together Faithful. On the contrary, as the new with the Rev. Mr. Bewilderment; the railroad brings with it great trade and a Rev. Mr. Clog-the-spirit; and, last and constant influx of strangers, the lord of greatest, the Rev. Dr. Wind-of-doctrine. Vanity Fair is its chief patron, and the The labours of these eminent divines capitalists of the city are among the are aided by those of innumerable leclargest stockholders. Many passengers turers, who diffuse such a various prostop to take their pleasure or make their fundity in all subjects of human or profit in the Fair, instead of going on- celestial science, that any man may ward to the Celestial City. Indeed, acquire an omnigenous erudition, withsuch are the charms of the place, that out the trouble of even learning to read. people often affirm it to be the true and Thus literature is etherialized by assumonly heaven; stoutly contending that ing for its medium the human voice; there is no other, that those who seek and knowledge, depositing all its heavier further are mere dreamers, and that, if particles-except, doubtless, its gold— becomes exhaled into a sound, which forthwith steals into the ever open ear of the community. These ingenious methods constitute a sort of machinery by which thought and study are done to every person's hand, without his putting himself to the slightest inconvenience in the matter. There is another species of machine for the wholesale manufacture of individual morality. This excellent result is effected by societies for all manner of virtuous purposes, with which a man has merely to connect himself, throwing, as it were, his quota of virtue into the common stock, and the president and directors will take care that the aggregate amount be well applied. All these, and other wonderful improvements in ethics, religion, and literature, being made plain to my comprehension by the ingenious Mr. Smooth-it-away, inspired me with a vast admiration of Vanity Fair. valuable possession, for another jewel of the same kind, but so worn and defaced as to be utterly worthless. In one shop there were a great many crowns of laurel and myrtle, which soldiers, authors, statesmen, and various other people, pressed eagerly to buy ; some purchased these paltry wreaths with their lives, others by a toilsome servitude of years; and many sacrificed whatever was most valuable, yet finally slunk away without the crown. There was a sort of stock or scrip, called Conscience, which seemed to be in great demand, and would purchase almost anything. Indeed, few rich commodities were to be obtained without paying a heavy sum in this particular stock, as a man's business was seldom very lucrative, unless he knew precisely when and how to throw his hoard of Conscience into the market. Yet as this stock was the only thing of permanent value, whoever parted with it was sure to find himself a loser, in the long run. Several of the speculations were of a questionable character. Occasionally a member of the legislature re It would fill a volume, in an age of pamphlets, were I to record all my observations in this great capital of human business and pleasure. There was an unlimited range of society-the power-cruited his pocket by the sale of his conful, the wise, the witty, and the famous in every walk of life-princes, presidents, poets, generals, artists, actors, and philanthropists, all making their own market at the Fair, and deeming no price too exorbitant for such commodities as hit their fancy. It was well worth one's while, even if he had no idea of buying or selling, to loiter through the bazaars, and observe the various sorts of traffic that were going forward. Some of the purchasers, I thought, made very foolish bargains. For instance, a young man, having inherited a splendid fortune, laid out a considerable portion of it in the purchase of diseases, and finally spent all the rest for a heavy lot of repentance and a suit of rags. A very pretty girl bartered a heart as clear as a crystal, and which seemed her most VOL. VII.-FOURTH SERIES. stituents; and I was assured that public officers have often sold their country at very moderate prices. Thousands sold their happiness for a whim. Gilded chains were in great demand, and purchased with almost any sacrifice. In truth, those who desired, according to the old adage, to sell anything valuable for a song, might find customers all over the Fair; and there were innumerable messes of pottage, piping hot, for such as chose to buy them with their birthrights. Tracts of land and golden mansions, situate in the Celestial City, were often exchanged, at very disadvantageous rates, for a few years' lease of small, dismal, inconvenient tenements in Vanity Fair. Day after day, as I walked the streets of Vanity, my manners and deportment became more and more like those of the L |