To criticise his separate works is beyond our scope, and were quite superfluous. His style, even in its ultimate form, was unquestionably and definably defective. It never became capable of expressing delicate, sprightly, or buoyant emotion; it wants variety, light graceful force, easy-stepping familiar elegance; it has always something of an elephantine tread, and its gayety is apt to remind one rather of the jingling of an elephant's trappings, than of the laughter of children: or, to change the figure, it never spreads out into wide islanded shallows, rippling to the breeze and sparkling in the sunbeams, but is always a massive, stately, slow-rolling river. Yet it possesses very rare and excellent qualities. It is remarkably rich and expressive; you can not skim along it. Almost strangely, too, considering its mass, it is by no means fatigu ing. Continually and unexpectedly, as if nourished by hidden fountains, the flowers of a deeply poetic nature bloom forth on the page. And though it can not be said to possess sprightli ness, yet there is not wanting a pleasant caustic wit, a quiet, earnest humor. Foster possessed a true vein of humor. Perhaps no style so deeply serious was ever so widely popular.

We have entirely abstained from speaking of Foster's private life. His biography, however partial, must be that of a thinker; his external life was that of a thousand Englishmen. He was a shrewd, somewhat sarcastic, but friendly man, loving his friends and social converse, and deeply happy in his family. He excelled in conversation when in a genial atmosphere, and specially when any friend whom he loved and honored-Hall, Fawcett, Hughes, or such other-was present. He took a deep interest in politics, lending all his influence to the side of freedom.

We noticed Foster's marriage; we may venture to cast one

look upon him as he lays his Maria, mourning, in the grave. It was in 1832, and he was now sinking into the vale of years: we think no description of the joy of a long married life, where perfect love and perfect friendship have blended mortal and immortal joys in one pure harmony, could so pathetically body forth its felicity as the following words, written by him when first the light of the present drew away, to rest, like a sunset, on the past:-"I have returned hither, but have an utter repugnance to say-returned home; that name is applicable no longer. There is a weight on the heart which the most friendly human hand can not remove. The melancholy fact is, that my beloved, inestimable companion has left me. It comes upon me-in evidence how various and sad! And yet, for a moment, sometimes I feel as if I could not realize it as true. There is something that seems to say, can it be that I shall see her no more; that I shall still, one day after another, find she is not here, that her affectionate voice and look will never accost me; the kind grasp of her hand never more be felt; that when I would be glad to consult her, make an observation to her, address to her some expression of love, call her my dear wife,' as I have done so many thousand times, it will be in vain-she is not here? Several times, a considerable number, even since I followed her to the tomb, a momentary suggestion of thought has been, as one and another circumstance has occurred, 'I will tell Maria of this."" One treads with silence and tears in the sacred neighborhood of such a sorrow.

As Foster's life drew near its end, the sadness which had ever characterized him became more deep. He never wavered in his trust in God, but he felt ever the more profoundly that this world was one of sorrow and darkness; he looked wistfully into the future, pondering upon the intermediate state

and such subjects; he walked sadly and solemnly gathering up questions for eternity.

At last he came to die: it was October, 1844. On his death-bed he showed the same tremulous sensibility to the distress or annoyance of others as had always characterized him. He would permit no servant to sit up with him during the night, and if it was insisted upon, he could not sleep; the fact is little in itself, but of singular interest in the case of Foster.

The substantial peace which he had attained did not desert him in his dying hours. He died as one can die who has well acquitted him in the far sterner duty of living a true and godly life. As he felt his strength gradually stealing away, he remarked on his increasing weakness, and added, "But I can pray, and that is a glorious thing." Truly a glorious thing; more glorious than atheist or pantheist can even pretend to. To look up to an Omnipotent Father, to speak to Him, to love Him; to stretch upward as a babe from the cradle, that He may lift His child in his everlasting arms to the restingplace of His own bosom; this is the portion of the dying Christian. He was overheard thus speaking with himself: "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 eye of the terror-crowned was upon him, and thus he defied him.

66

CHAPTER III.

THOMAS ARNOLD.

ABOUT the beginning of this century, a little boy might have been seen playing in a garden at West Cowes, Isle of Wight. The name of Napoleon and the din and rumor of war filled the air around him; his keen eyes brightened and sparkled continually, as they looked out upon martial pomp and preparation. The sight of the great war-ship entering the harbor, or bearing away to meet the foe; the news of battle and victory; the loud, loyal choruses of mariners, who stepped and looked with the consciousness of ruling the waves: these, mingling with the kindly tones and melodies of a Christian home, which softened every harshness and discord into a musical harmony, were the earliest influences to mold the young mind of Thomas Arnold. Though naturally bashful, the child was yet, so to speak, intensely alive, in body and mind. He got hold of Pope's Homer, and the many voices of war around him strengthened its influence; it was one of his favorite amusements, to enact the Homeric battles, with staves and garden implements for swords and spears, reciting, with a great sense of the valor and grandeur of the proceeding, the speeches of the heroes of Homer, that is, of Pope. At eight, he went to Warminster School, at twelve, to Winchester; in each he showed sympathetic intensity of intellect, heart and head acting strongly and in unison. He displayed great warmth in

his boyish friendships. Ere proceeding to Oxford, which he did at sixteen, his information had extended widely. He had read Gibbon and Mitford twice, and was well acquainted with Russel's Modern Europe; he knew also, to a considerable extent, the historians of Greece and Rome; his bent, it was already manifest, was toward geography and history.

Arnold entered at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, in 1811; it was an important epoch in his life, and his whole sojourn at the university is full of interest. The society in Corpus was select; and during Arnold's career it embraced young men of an extremely high and rare order; such, for instance, as Whateley, Heber, and Keble. He was an important member of the fraternity. He represented the healthful, well-balanced, daringly active English mind; instinct with sympathies that swept beyond academic walls to expatiate in the wide world; fond of poetry, and ardently affectionate, yet shrewd, discriminating, and burning his way through words to things. The air at Oxford was such as breathes through the Hall of the Past, and the great body of the students of Corpus, each in his several manner, loved and reverenced what was old; but Arnold was for freedom and advancement, and rebelled against the genius of the place. Yet, one by one, the nobler of his fellow-students came to know him and to love him; into one true heart after another he threw his invisible grappling-iron, and linked it to his for life. Corpus was a little senate in itself, where all the big questions of the day were discussed; and he was an active and vehement disputant. We can imagine him appearing at times even overbearing, but it was only when he was himself overborne by his subject. He could not hold an opinion by halves; if it entered his heart at all, it was received with the warm welcome of hospitality, and served and defended at all risks. He was to be seen in the