His father was a friend of a canon at the former place, and Arthur was generally certain of a stall; and I used often to see his tall form there, with his eyes "indwelling wistfully," "reputans secum," as Virgil says, lost in speculations and wonders, and a whole host of melancholy broodings over life and death to which he rarely gave voice, but which formed a perpetual background to his thoughts.
He varied this by visits to his father in Hampshire, and occasional trips to the country, not unfrequently alone, the object and occupation of which he never told me, except to say once that he had explored, he thought, every considerable "solitude" in England.
There is one thing that I must not forget to mention--his dreams.

He never slept, he told me, without innumerable dreams, and he not unfrequently told me of them.

They always struck me as curiously vivid.

I subjoin the following from one of his diaries.

They are often given at full length.