“But, in spite of the hopeless strife of Churches, the fundamental attraction of Christianity for human nature remains every bit as strong—­to be able to say to all people, ’Imagine and idealize the best human being possible; put into him all the best qualities of all the best people you have ever known—­give him strength, sympathy, power beyond the most powerful on earth, and add to that a great deep individual affection for you yourself, of a kind that is never moved by insults, or chilled by coldness, or diverted by ingratitude;’—­say to them, ’And he has been waiting quietly for you for years, for the least sign of affection on your part, never disgusted, never impatient, always ready to turn and welcome you.’

“Think what a hold you establish, saying this, over all people conscious of unhappiness of any kind, over all those refined natures coarsening under a vile entourage, over all unsatisfied hearts craving for a friend that their surroundings can not give them, over all who have lost delight for whatever cause in common familiar things, and have nowhere to turn.  When one reflects how many human beings fall under one or other of these heads, one does not wonder at it.”

I returned to London, feeling wonderfully refreshed and invigorated, both in body and mind, by my visit.  Then, as ever, I could not help feeling a subtle influence in Arthur’s conversation and presence, that defied analysis and yet was undoubtedly there.  He seemed to encourage one to hope, or rather believe, in the ultimate tendency to good in all things, to wait and watch the developments and the bents of life, rather than to fret over particular events—­and this without a vague optimism that refuses to take count of what is unsatisfactory and foul, but looking causes and consequences fairly in the face.  “I never quite understood the parable of the tares,” he said to me, just before I went, “till I found these words in a book the other day:  ’The root of the common darnel (lolium) or dandelion, with saltpeter, make a very cheap and effective sheep-drench.  It can be applied successfully in cases of fluke.’”

In October, 1883, as had been arranged, Edward went up to Trinity College, Cambridge.  I had a short letter from Arthur telling me.  It ended characteristically thus:  “I don’t in the least care that Edward should be distinguished academically.  I do care very much what sort of a character he is.  What one does, matters so very much less than how one does it.  It is the method, not the thing, which shows what the man is.  I shall be very much disgusted if he means to work and doesn’t, but merely drifts; whereas, if he is idle on principle, I don’t much care.  ‘Do what you mean to do,’ is what I have always told him.  If I hear that he is doing fairly well and making friends, and finds himself at home, I shall be content, but nothing more.  But if I hear that he is influential and takes his own line, I shall be very much pleased, even if that line is not quite the most respectable, or that influence is not now for the best.”