I became a member of the Metaphysical Society, I think, at its first meeting in 1869; and, though my engagements in Cambridge did not allow me to attend regularly, I retain a very distinct recollection of the part taken by your father in the debates at which we were present together.  There were several members of the Society with whose philosophical views I had, on the whole, more sympathy; but there was certainly no one to whom I found it more pleasant and more instructive to listen.  Indeed I soon came to the conclusion that there was only one other member of our Society who could be placed on a par with him as a debater, on the subjects discussed at our meetings; and that was, curiously enough, a man of the most diametrically opposite opinions—­W.G.  Ward, the well-known advocate of Ultramontanism.  Ward was by training, and perhaps by nature, more of a dialectician; but your father was unrivalled in the clearness, precision, succinctness, and point of his statements, in his complete and ready grasp of his own system of philosophical thought, and the quickness and versatility with which his thought at once assumed the right attitude of defence against any argument coming from any quarter.  I used to think that while others of us could perhaps find, on the spur of the moment, an answer more or less effective to some unexpected attack, your father seemed always able to find the answer—­I mean the answer that it was reasonable to give, consistently with his general view, and much the same answer that he would have given if he had been allowed the fullest time for deliberation.

The general tone of the Metaphysical Society was one of extreme consideration for the feelings of opponents, and your father’s speaking formed no exception to the general harmony.  At the same time I seem to remember him as the most combative of all the speakers who took a leading part in the debates.  His habit of never wasting words, and the edge naturally given to his remarks by his genius for clear and effective statement, partly account for this impression; still I used to think that he liked fighting, and occasionally liked to give play to his sarcastic humour—­though always strictly within the limits imposed by courtesy.  I remember that on one occasion when I had read to the Society an essay on the “Incoherence of Empiricism,” I looked forward with some little anxiety to his criticisms; and when they came, I felt that my anxiety had not been superfluous; he “went for” the weak points of my argument in half a dozen trenchant sentences, of which I shall not forget the impression.  It was hard hitting, though perfectly courteous and fair.

I wish I could remember what he said, but the memory of all the words uttered in these debates has now vanished from my mind, though I recall vividly the general impression that I have tried briefly to put down.

Believe me, yours very truly,

Henry Sidgwick.