The only other thing I heard him say that night was as follows.  An ardent enthusiast on the subject of missions was present, who, speaking of an Indian mission lately started and apparently wholly ineffective, said, “But we must expect discouragement at first.  The Church has always met with that.”

“Yes,” said Arthur; “but we must also remember, what people are very apt to forget, that ill success is not an absolute proof that God is on our side.”

These two remarks, slight as they were, struck me; and, indeed, I have never quite forgotten that indefinable first impression of the man.  There was a feeling about him of holding great things in reserve, an utter absence of self-consciousness, a sensation that he did not value the opinions of other people, that he did not regulate his conduct by them, which is very refreshing in these social days, when everybody’s doings and sayings are ventilated and discussed so freely.  He had none of the ordinary ambitions; he did not want a reputation, I thought, on ordinary grounds; he struck me as liking to observe and consider, not to do or say.

I am fond of guessing at character and forming impressions; and I very soon found out that these were not mistaken.  My way that night lay with him as far as the gate of his college.  We struck up a kind of acquaintanceship, though I felt conscious that he did not in the least care about doing so, that he probably would not give me another thought.  It seems strange, reflecting on that evening, that I should now come to be his biographer.

However, I was interested in the type of character he displayed, and did not let the acquaintance drop.  I invited him to my rooms.  He would not come of his own accord at first, but by-and-by he got habituated to me, and not unfrequently strolled in.

He never let any one into the secret of his motives; he never confessed to any plans for the future, or to taking any interest in one line of life more than another.  He was well off and did not spend much, except on his books, which were splendid.  His rooms were untidy to the last degree, but liberally supplied with the most varied contrivances for obtaining a comfortable posture.  Deep chairs and sofas, with devices for books and light, and for writing in any position.  “When my mind is at work,” he said to me once, “I don’t like to be reminded of my body at all.  I want to forget that I have one; and so I always say my prayers lying down.”

He dressed badly, or rather carelessly, for he never gave the subject a moment’s thought.  If his friends told him that a suit was shabby, he appeared in a day or two in a new one, till that was similarly noticed; then it was discarded altogether.  He always wore one suit till he had worn it out, never varying it.  But he consulted fashion to a certain extent.  “My object,” he said, “is to escape notice, to look like every one else.  I think of all despicable people, the people who try to attract attention by a marked style of dress, are perhaps the lowest.”