head, ponder for a moment over the soul-satisfying nature of their idleness, and return to his books again.
'To those who think, life is a comedy; to those who feel, a tragedy.' Dr. Furness, thinking profoundly, feeling intensely, with a sad heart and a gay temper (that most charming and lovable combination!) replaced illusions with philosophy. His rare powers of conversation, his marvelous memory, his information, which, unlike the information of Macaulay, was never 'more than the occasion required,' his unfailing humor, his beautiful vocabulary, rich yet precise, his swift light sentences, conveying important conclusions, all made him the most engaging of companions. There was no talk like his,—so full of substance, so innocent of pedantry, so perfect in form, so sweetened by courtesy. Well might it have been said of him, as Johnson said of Burke: 'If a stranger were to go by chance at the same time with him under a shed to shun a shower, he would think, "This is an extraordinary man.'"
The serenity with which Dr. Furness submitted to encroachments on his time and strength equaled the serenity of Sir Walter Scott. The hospitality of Lindenshade, like the hospitality of Abbotsford, was boundless. The kindness of its master was invincible. Poets sent him their verses, dramatists their plays, and novelists their stories. Authors who meditated writing
