tones. These, in general, bespoke a sort of thrilling
melancholy. I scarcely ever knew him to laugh. He never
accompanied the lawless mirth of his companions with more than
a smile, but his conduct was the same as ours.

He partook of our occupations and amusements with a zeal not
less than ours, but of a different kind. The diversity in our
temper was never the parent of discord, and was scarcely a topic
of regret. The scene was variegated, but not tarnished or
disordered by it. It hindered the element in which we moved
from stagnating. Some agitation and concussion is requisite to
the due exercise of human understanding. In his studies, he
pursued an austerer and more arduous path. He was much
conversant with the history of religious opinions, and took
pains to ascertain their validity. He deemed it indispensable
to examine the ground of his belief, to settle the relation
between motives and actions, the criterion of merit, and the
kinds and properties of evidence.

There was an obvious resemblance between him and my father,
in their conceptions of the importance of certain topics, and in
the light in which the vicissitudes of human life were
accustomed to be viewed. Their characters were similar, but the
mind of the son was enriched by science, and embellished with
literature.

The temple was no longer assigned to its ancient use. From
an Italian adventurer, who erroneously imagined that he could
find employment for his skill, and sale for his sculptures in
America, my brother had purchased a bust of Cicero. He