So much is said nowadays about the dissidence of the spiritual and intellectual worlds.  Many people, conscious of intellect, are yet strangely at sea when they are told of their spiritual side.  There appears to be nothing within them answering to that description.  There are, indeed, certain qualities or characteristics, but those seem not to exist independent of their intellectual and physical economies, but to permeate both.  They do not understand that what is meant is the faculty of emotional generalization. That they could understand.  Arthur arrived at his principles purely through logical methods and intellectual operations.  He could not, he often confessed, separate the intellectual and the spiritual.  From some expressions, however, which dropped from him in a letter, part of which is given on p. 209, I am vaguely aware that he was reconsidering that point (and it has been suggested to me that such an explanation will suit his last words); but, in any case, he was of the greatest possible comfort to us who knew him, because he was an instance (the only one) of a man who had arrived at his principles from a purely intellectual basis.

And let me, finally, correct the impression, if I have by chance, in developing this latter point, given any colour to the idea that his character was hard, logical, unaffectionate, unloving.  Arthur was the tenderest, most sympathetic, most loving soul I have ever met; nothing else would explain his influence.  He was not demonstrative, and was often misunderstood.  His tendency was to dissimulate the strongest of his feelings.  Yet I have seen him turn red and pale at the sight of a letter in the handwriting of a friend he loved; I have seen him literally tremble with emotion when Edward Bruce, in his impulsive boyish way, would, with eager demonstrative affection, throw his arm round his neck, or take his hand.  The tears gather in my eyes as I write, when I recall a few words of his a few days before he died, when he called me to him.  It was after one of those terrible paroxysms of pain.  He was very white and feeble, but smiling.  He took my hand, and said, “What a wonderful thing it is that pain takes away one’s power of thinking of anything except people.  It hurries one away, somewhere, deep, deep down; yet one can bear to touch the bottom.  But when loving anyone carries one away, one goes down deeper and deeper, and yet feels that there is a fathomless gulf beyond.”