by a geniality of conversation and manner which irresistibly attracted those who were so fortunate as to come within the circle of his intimate acquaintance. Nor was this all. His sense of the ludicrous was most keen; and while his humor was never hilarious, his appreciation of wit in others was quick, and his quiet drollery irresistible. "It sparkled in his conversation, and sometimes in his letters." The writer well remembers that once—in one of the many delightful walks which it was his privilege to enjoy with him—in reply to a question as to the design of a certain building in the distance, he answered with that merry twinkle, which those familiar with him will at once recall, "Oh! that is for boys whose Latin is bad—who have never been taught the distinction of meum and tuum."
As an orator, Dr. Wayland cannot, in the popular sense of that word, be called great; yet, if to have the gift of speaking with fluency and elegance, and of stirring an audience to the very depths of emotional feeling is eloquence, he certainly possessed that quality in a remarkable degree. There are passages in some of his sermons and addresses which, for power and moral grandeur, have been rarely surpassed. Of this nature was his address delivered at the commencement of Union College, in 1854, a year which witnessed the fiftieth anniversary of the presidency of the late Dr. Nott.
The occasion, as may readily be imagined, was one of peculiar and thrilling interest. The old Dutch church was densely crowded. On the platform sat the venerable Agamemnon, surrounded by his former pupils—graduates of half a century, and representatives of three, and even four, generations. Parents and children, grandchildren and great grand-children, had gathered to look once more, and probably for the last time, upon that face which had so often been turned upon them with parental and affectionate sympathy. And now the closing passage is reached, and the beloved pupil—himself three-score—turns to the aged patriarch, and thus addresses him:
Venerable man! We rejoice to see that thine eye is not dim, though thy natural force is somewhat abated. . . . Long may you yet live to witness the happiness which you have created, and to cherish the genius which your inspirations first awakened to conscious existence. And when the Saviour, in whose footsteps you have trodden, shall call thee home to receive thy reward, may death lay his hand gently on that venerated form, and gently quiet the pulsations of that noble heart. May thy fainting head recline upon the bosom of the Redeemer whom thou hast loved; may thine eye open upon visions of glory which man may not utter, and so may an entrance be abundantly administered to thee into the joy of the Lord. Heaven will account itself richer as it opens its pearly gates to welcome thy approach; but where shall those who survive find anything left on earth that resembles thee?
It will be impossible for any one who reads these printed words, without a personal knowledge of the author, and who has never
