to admit of their moving about without restraint. It is difficult to
imagine a more disheartening youth. Nevertheless, out of this desert, in
which no hope was visible, he rose up eventually a cheerful man (cheerful
when his days were not clouded by his sister's illness); a charming
companion, full of pleasant and gentle fancies, and the finest humorist of
his age.

Although sometimes strange in manner, he was thoroughly unaffected; in
serious matters thoroughly sincere. He was, indeed (as he confesses),
terribly shy; diffident, not awkward in manner; with occasionally nervous,
twitching motions that betrayed this infirmity. He dreaded the criticisms
of servants far more than the observations of their masters. To undergo
the scrutiny of the first, as he said to me, when we were going to
breakfast with Mr. Rogers one morning, was "terrible." His speech was
brief and pithy; not too often humorous; never sententious nor didactic.
Although he sometimes talked whilst walking up and down the room (at which
time he seldom looked at the person with whom he was talking), he very
often spoke as if impelled by the necessity of speaking--suddenly,
precipitately. If he could have spoken very easily, he might possibly have
uttered long sentences, expositions, or orations; such as some of his
friends indulged in, to the utter confusion of their hearers.

But he knew the value of silence; and he knew that even truth may be
damaged by too many words. When he did speak, his words had a flavor in
them beyond any that I have heard elsewhere. His conversation dwelt upon
persons or things within his own recollection, or it opened (with a
startling doubt, or a question, or a piece of quaint humor) the great
circle of thought.

In temper he was quick, but easily appeased. He never affected that