Paul's. 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. This is one of the most interesting I
can find.

"_January_ 8.—Slept badly; toward morning dreamed that I was walking
with two or three friends, and accompanied by a tall man whom I did
not know, wrapped in a cloak, through a very dark wood. I seemed to
be in a very heavy mood. We came upon a building brightly lighted,
and, entering, found a hall with many people dining. There was
much wine and talk, and a great deal of laughing and merriment.
We appeared to be invisible.

"I began to moralize aloud. I said, 'Yes, and this is the way in
which lives pass: a little laughter and a few jests and a song or
two; forgetful, all the time, that the lights must be extinguished
and the wine spilled, and that night laps them round,'—catching,