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.