218 BULLETIN OF THE 



of Dean Swift, is rarely characteristic of the fullest minds, he was 

 none the less a pleasing and effective speaker — the more effective 

 because his words never outran his thought. We loved to think 

 and speak of him as " the Nestor of American Science," and if 

 his speech, like Nestor's, " flovv^ed sweeter than honey," it was 

 due to the excellent quality of the matter rather than to any rhe- 

 torical facility of manner. 



He was blest with a happy temperament. He recorded in his 

 diary, as a matter of thanksgiving, that through the kindness of 

 Providence he was able to forget what had been painful in his 

 past experiences, and to remember only and enjoy that which 

 had been pleasurable. The same sentiment is expressed in one 

 of his letters. Armed with this sunny temper which, like the 

 dial, "marks only the hours that shine," he was in his family 

 circle a perpetual benediction. And, in turn, he was greatly 

 dependent on his family for the sympathy and watch-care due 

 in a thousand small things to one who never " lost the child- 

 like in the larger mind." His domestic affections were not 

 dwarfed by the exacting nature of his official duties, his public 

 cares, or his scientific vigils. He had none of that solitary gran- 

 deur affected by isolated spirits who cannot descend to the tears 

 and smiles of this common world. He was never so happy as 

 when in his home he was communing with wife and children 

 around the family altar. He made them the confidants of all 

 his plans. He rehearsed to them Ins scientific experiments. He 

 reported to them the record of each day's adventures. He read 

 with them his favorite authors.* He entei'ed with a gleeful spirit 



* The following extract from a diary, kept by one of his daughters, is 

 descriptive of his habits uuder this head : " Had father with us all the 

 evening. I modelled his profile in clay while lie read Thomson's Seasons 

 to us. In the earlier part of the evening lie seemed restless and de- 

 pressed, but the influence of the poet drove away the cloud, and then an 

 expression of almost childlike sweetness rested on his lips, singularly in 

 contrast yet beautifully in harmony with the intellect of the brow above." 



Or take this extract from the same diary; " We were all up until a 

 late hour, reading poetry with father and mother, father being the reader. 

 He attempted ' Cowper's Grave,' by Mrs. Browning, but was too tender- 

 hearted to finish the reading of it. We then laughed over the Address 

 to the Mummy, soared to heaven with Shelley's Skylark, roamed the 

 forest with Bryant, culled flowers from other poetical fields, and ended 

 with Tarn O'Shanter. I took for my task to recite a part of the latter from 

 memory, while father corrected, as if he were ' playing schoolmaster.' " 



