old prophet with thrilling words from another world, his real character would be of little importance; for their imaginations would clothe him with any degree of sanctity. But he who walks among them in daily life, like other men, has no refuge from his indiscretions and faults in the fancies of the observers. He is exposed to scrutiny, and must submit to it. He must calculate on having all his instructions respecting virtue, humility, purity and kindness interpreted by the construction which he himself in his every day life seems to put upon them. As it was said to the French preacher, "Father, when I hear you speak in the pulpit respecting the severity of a religious life, my heart sinks with despair, but when I meet you in the world, my courage revives again;"-so men are always more ready to follow the carelessness of a preacher's life than the sobriety of his precepts. On the other hand, he who can endure this strict ordeal of daily observation, and is seen to verify in his character the picture of goodness which he has drawn in his discourses, imparts a power and sacredness to his doctrine which no eloquence or genius could have bestowed. He is listened to with a reverence and trust which the highest oratory never commands.

Dr Parker was one of those who could stand this severe trial. His virtues bore examination, and his foibles did not become greater on closer inspection. His perpetual living in the presence of men, so far from contradicting or weakening the power of his preaching, incalculably augmented its power by the fidelity with which his example seconded it; gave it a power, in fact, which those could hardly understand, who did not know the man. It was the illustration of his life which made his teaching what it was to his people.

It would be easy here to use the language of indiscriminate eulogy, and pass off some general outline of a Christian man for a description of the man before us. But if I rightly apprehend it, his character had some marked features; and it is by these, that he will be most faithfully represented and his life most truly explained. And I am inclined to think that the pervading characteristic, that which appeared always prominent and gave complexion to the whole, was what may be called truthfulness. He was a TRUE man. In thought, heart, purpose, word, act, deportment, directly and indirectly, all was true. Nothing was designed, nothing done or said, for appearance' sake, or through mere expediency. He exhibited himself so undisguisedly, with such straight-forwardness, that an observer would spontaneously say, that is a man to be confided in. This it was, in connexion with his clear-sighted good sense, which caused him to be trusted in the manner already alluded to. This led him to that open plainness of speech, amounting sometimes to bluntness, which has been spoken of. I cannot help suspecting, also, that from this originated that oddity or quaintness of expression which so much characterised his familiar conversation. Might it not have been at first employed as a cover to bold and unpalatable truths? Half sarcastic and half humorous, stingingly severe yet jocose in expression, he was able to say inoffensively whatever he pleased,—his manner acted instead of a formal apology for plain dealing. But whether so designed or not, or whether this peculiarity were the mere result of a sportive habit of mind, it certainly had the effect which I ascribe to it. Those who most keenly felt the censure could feel no resentment; for there was evidently not only no ill will, but the greatest kindness and

good humor in him who spoke it. Every one who came within the sphere of his influence," a friend has truly said, "felt perfect confidence in his sincerity, which would not allow him to flatter his weakness, or palliate his faults; and yet his kindness and benevolence were so apparent, that they knew his judgments would be lenient as well as just. I think there was in him a rare union of stern integrity, uncompromising detestation and scorn of all that was false and wrong, united with perfect kindness and the most tender sympathy with the imperfections of human nature."

His influence over men was therefore that of character. He did not strive for influence. He did not aim at power. It came to him. It belonged to him, as it does to every man of single-mindedness and trust-worthiness. Men saw that he was what he appeared to be, and that his objects were what he professed; that he was not considering what would be expedient, he had a contempt for those who belittle great intentions by asking whether it be expedient to labor for them; - he considered only right and duty. Therefore they felt that he was to be trusted.

gave

him

There was another trait in his character which influence. His friends remarked in him an uncommon knowledge of human nature, an intuitive perception of character, a singular and almost prophetic sagacity by which he penetrated men's bosoms and discerned foibles or dispositions of which they were themselves scarcely aware. He evidently made man and human character his study; and having, as one expresses it, "a strong faith in the moral power and results of principles," he was accustomed to reason from the act to the motive and from appearances to the reality, so as oftentimes to startle those with whom he conversed by unveiling them unawares to themselves.

This talent of observation extended to men's affairs as well as characters. It used to be a matter of wonder to his friends how he should, without officious inquisitiveness or habits of worldly gossip, be yet so sagacious and familiar in secular concerns. An upright trust-worthy man, possessing such penetration into men and things, could not fail to possess influence. Then it is to be added, that he was accustomed to express himself on all subjects with perfect frankness and directness. If he must speak of sin, especially of the mean and base sins, he would use no palliating or softening expressions, nor take pains to hide the expression of indignation and contempt which burned upon his countenance. "A lie he would call a lie, and as such he would treat it, in all its forms and disguises; and if anything human would make the heart of the deceiver quail, it was such a look as I have sometimes seen dart from his usually mild and benevolent face."* Finesse, management, manoeuvring, cunning, in the conduct of any affairs, met his heartiest detestation. Of other sins he would speak with compassion, because, he said, he could conceive them to be occasioned by unexpected temptation, sudden passion, power of circumstances, faults of education; but this could have no palliation, was a deliberate plotting to do wrong and to do it by deception.

it

Another leading characteristic was his disinterestedness. "He was the most disinterested person I ever knew," said one who knew him intimately for many years. "His time, his studies, his labors, his money, even his personal sufferings, seemed to be considered by him only as they might benefit

Mr Foster's Address.

others." His disregard to selfish considerations was apparent in his whole demeanor and course of life. It was seen in his giving time and thought to others, at seasons when disease and suffering might have excused him for thinking only of himself. As a preacher it showed itself in his shrinking from commendation; he dreaded lest he might perchance be brought to mingle a regard to his own reputation with the feelings which he carried into the pulpit; and as a pastor and friend it showed itself in his habitual attention to the welfare of others. He could not even perceive it to be right to make savings from his little means as a provision for a future day. When entreated to be less generous to others and spare something for himself, he replied, that he had not been convinced that he should do more

good by that means than by spending now. In the same spirit was his saying, formerly quoted,- My parish first, then my family. It was a pleasure to him sometimes to invite to his table some of the humble and poor, and share their gratification. I will not ask, he would say, those whom Mr A. or Mr B. might invite; they do not need my dinner; I will have those whom nobody invites. He pleased himself with getting out for these humble guests some choice wine which had been given him; and when reminded that they would not know the difference between that and what was inferior, he replied, But I do.

During the night of the great fire in 1814, and in the midst of the consternation of that awful season, as he was walking with a friend, they met a lady retreating from the conflagration of her home. His friend immediately offered her an asylum. No, no, said he; she has friends, let her go to them; reserve your room for those who have none.