wish we could have given in full the letters from Arthur's friends,
which his father has incorporated in the Memoir. They all bring out in
different but harmonious ways, his extraordinary moral and intellectual
worth, his rare beauty of character, and their deep affection.

The following extract from one seems to us very interesting:--"Outwardly
I do not think there was anything remarkable in his habits, except _an
irregularity with regard to times and places of study_, which may seem
surprising in one whose progress in so many directions was so eminently
great and rapid. _He was commonly to be found in some friend's room,
reading, or canvassing._ I dare say he lost something by this
irregularity, _but less than perhaps one would at first imagine_. I
never saw him idle. He might seem to be lounging, or only amusing
himself, but his mind was always active, and active for good. In fact,
his energy and quickness of apprehension did not stand in need of
outward aid." There is much in this worthy of more extended notice. Such
minds as his probably grow best in this way, are best left to themselves
to glide on at their own sweet wills; the stream was too deep and clear,
and perhaps too entirely bent on its own errand, to be dealt with or
regulated by any art or device. The same friend sums up his character
thus:--"I have met with no man his superior in metaphysical subtlety; no
man his equal as a philosophical critic on works of taste; no man whose
views on all subjects connected with the duties and dignities of
humanity were more large, and generous, and enlightened." And all this
said of a youth of twenty--_heu nimium brevis aevi decus et desiderium!_

We have given little of this verse; and what we do give is taken at
random. We agree entirely in his father's estimate of his poetical gift
and art, but his mind was too serious, too thoughtful, too intensely
dedicated to truth and the God of truth, to linger long in the pursuit
of beauty; he was on his way to God, and could rest in nothing short of
Him, otherwise he might have been a poet of genuine excellence.

"Dark, dark, yea, 'irrecoverably dark,
Is the soul's eye; yet how it strives and battles
Thorough th' impenetrable gloom to fix
That master light, the secret truth of things,
Which is the body of the infinite God!"

"Sure, we are leaves of one harmonious bower,
Fed by a sap that never will be scant,
All-permeating, all-producing mind;
And in ou