Memoirs of Arthur Hamilton, B. A. Of Trinity College, Cambridge | Page 8

in such a matter, I came to the
conclusion that he had fallen, in some degree, under the influence of these meetings.
But in revising this book, and carefully recalling my own and studying others'
impressions, I came to the conclusion that it was impossible that this should be the case.
1. In the first place, he was more free than any man I ever saw from the influence of
contagious emotions; he dissembled his own emotions, and contemned the public display
of them in other people.
2. He had, I remember, a strange repugnance, even abhorrence, to public meetings in the
later days at Cambridge. I can now recall that he would accompany people to the door,
but never be induced to enter. A passage which I will quote from one of his letters
illustrates this.
"The presence of a large number of people has a strange, repulsive physical effect on me.
I feel crushed and overwhelmed, not stimulated and vivified, as is so often described. I
can't listen to a concert comfortably if there is a great throng, unless the music is so good
as to wrap one altogether away. There is undoubtedly a force abroad among large masses
of people, the force which forms the basis of the principle of public prayer, and I am
conscious of it too, only it distresses me; moreover, the worst and most afflicting
nightmare I have is the sensation of standing sightless and motionless, but with all the

other senses alert and apprehensive, in the presence of a vast and hostile crowd."
3. He never showed the least sign of being influenced in the direction of spiritual or even
religious life by this crisis. He certainly spoke very little at all for some time to any one
on any subject; he was distrait and absent-minded in society--for the alteration was much
observed from its suddenness--but when he gradually began to converse as usual, he did
not, as is so often the case in similar circumstances, do what is called "bearing witness to
the truth." His attitude toward all enthusiastic forms of religion had been one, in old days,
of good-natured, even amused tolerance. He was now not so good-natured in his
criticisms, and less sparing of them, though his religious-mindedness, his seriousness,
was undoubtedly increased by the experience, whatever it was.
On the whole, then, I should say that the coincidence of the revival is merely fortuitous. It
remains to seek what the cause was.
We must look for it, in a character so dignified as Arthur's, in some worthy cause, some
emotional failure, some moral wound. I believe the following to be the clew; I can not
develop it without treading some rather delicate ground.
He had formed, in his last year at school, a very devoted friendship with a younger boy;
such friendships like the [Greek: eispnelas] and the [Greek: aitas] of Sparta, when they
are truly chivalrous and absolutely pure, are above all other loves, noble, refining, true;
passion at white heat without taint, confidence of so intimate a kind as can not even exist
between husband and wife, trust such as can not be shadowed, are its characteristics. I
speak from my own experience, and others will, I know, at heart confirm me, when I say
that these things are infinitely rewarding, unutterably dear.
Arthur left Winchester. A correspondence ensued between the two friends. I have three
letters of Arthur's, so passionate in expression, that for fear of even causing uneasiness,
not to speak of suspicion, I will not quote them. I have seen, though I have destroyed, at
request, the letters of the other.
This friend, a weak, but singularly attractive boy, got into a bad set at Winchester, and
came to grief in more than one way; he came to Cambridge in three years, and fell in with
a thoroughly bad set there. Arthur seems not to have suspected it at first, and to have
delighted in his friend's society; but such things as habits betray themselves, and my
belief is that disclosures were made on November 8, which revealed to Arthur the state of
the case. What passed I can not say. I can hardly picture to myself the agony, disgust, and
rage (his words and feelings about sensuality of any kind were strangely keen and bitter),
loyalty fighting with the sense of repulsion, pity struggling with honour, which must have
convulsed him when he discovered that his friend was not only yielding, but deliberately
impure.
The other's was an unworthy and brutal nature, utterly corrupted at bottom. He used to
speak jestingly of the occurrence. "Oh yes!" I have heard him say; "we were great friends
once, but he cuts me now; he had to give me up, you see, because he didn't approve