conversation that was distinctive and peculiar. It was 'green pastures and
still waters.'"

Our friend had, it is true, a memory which faithfully retained the
acquisitions made in early life, but, in some way or other, was
continually enlarging them. I think I have never known one whose thoughts
were so much with the past, whose memory was so familiar with the words
and actions of those who inhabited the earth before us, and who so loved
and reverenced the worthy examples they have given us, yet who so much
interested himself in the present and was so hopeful of the future. There
was no tendency of this shifting and changeful age which he did not
observe, no new discovery made, no new theory started, no untrodden path
of speculation opened to human thought, which did not immediately engage
his attention, and of which he had not something instructive to say. He
was as familiar with the literature of the day as are the crowd of common
readers who know no other, yet he suffered not the brilliant novelties of
the hour to wean his admiration from the authors whose reputation has
stood the test of time. He was generous, however, to rising merit, and
took pleasure in commending it to the attention of others.

His learning was not secular merely; his library was well stocked with
works on theology; he was familiar with the questions discussed in them;
the New Testament, in the original, was a part of his daily reading; he
had examined the dark or doubtful passages of Scripture, and they who were
much in his society needed no more satisfactory commentator. Not long
since he sent to the Society Library for a theological work rather out of
date. "It is the first time that work was ever called for," said the
librarian, smiling as he took it from the shelf, and aired the leaves a
little.