One of his daughters says:—"When I can first remember him he walked with a limp, although without a cane, and his locks had become few." In manner he was most affable and courteous; in conversation he was always evolving great ideas—as Mr. Calhoun said of him, "He was a man of great thoughts," and, when not conversing, he was either writing or walking up and down the room as on a quarterdeck, studying out some problem to be soon placed before the world for its good.
But whether writing or thinking, no noise of the children, no invasion of visitors, was ever an interruption. In the midst of his most interesting pursuits, on which he was concentrating his powers, he would lay down his pen and join in the laugh at a good joke, and encourage the mirth to go on. He had an ever-active sense of humour; but scandal and gossip he would not allow in his presence, and he would never pass over any violation of high principle. He made loving companions and friends of his children—in his walks, in his talks, in his work, in his recreation, he was always one of them. He invited their confidence, and freely gave them his; in that household there were no secrets—any step that was about to be taken, any journey made, or any work projected, was fully and freely talked over and discussed in family conclave. And yet his word was law, that no one ever dreamt of disputing; so he was always the last to speak in these family councils, and gave the "casting-vote," as he used to say; the youngest voting or giving their opinion first on the matter under discussion.
Most of his voluminous writings were thus freely submitted to the family council, or copied by them, and each one invited and encouraged to criticise; and thus, not only were they made familiar with the workings of his mind, but were taught to express their own thoughts.
He wrote or composed and dictated his greatest books in
