'I can still see that little room under the roof; the picture on the wall of the dead saint floating on the dark water; the well-filled bookcase; the table piled with volumes; himself throwing everything aside to greet one. It was almost with a feeling of awe that I sometimes climbed those stairs and entered into his presence. Perhaps it would be for a lesson on the New Testament--for when I was reading for a Theological Tripos he was generous, even prodigal, of help. The lesson over--and there are many who know what a goodly thing a lesson from him on the New Testament was--he would open a volume of Tennyson--"In Memoriam" most likely--read a few stanzas, and begin to talk about them. Gradually, it would seem, the things of the world would fade from him. He forgot the hour and my presence as his thoughts poured out. I sat and listened, generally silent, sometimes hazarding a question. Presently--it was often late--I would rise to leave. Rapt from his surroundings, he seemed scarcely conscious of my departure; and I would go quietly out, almost as though I had been on holy ground, where not once nor twice the dweller had seen God face to face.' His power of helping men by silent sympathy is {24} referred to by one who writes: 'The many words of kindness, but more particularly the silent sympathy he conveyed in some mysterious manner, will ever keep him present with us.' Another, who had known him in his early days at Christ's, and again in later years, writes: 'When I was up he was a nervous retiring man, at his best when one found him alone in his own room. Even then he would sometimes talk little. Since my return from South Africa I have found him much more at home with men and much more ready to talk, but retaining his old power of sympathy without words.' His own faith was based rather upon intuitive perception of the Divine love than upon argument. On one occasion, quite towards the end of his life, he said to one with whom he was staying, 'Sometimes I sit and think, till I can find no reason for the existence of God; and then there rises up in me something which is stronger than the love I have for those who are dear to me--and they are very dear--the love of God. It seems to smile at my doubts.' Several of his friends have referred to Forbes's influence as a power which helped to develop their own sympathy towards others. Thus one writes: 'I think perhaps it was my intercourse with him that first taught me to look out for and appreciate the real goodness--or, better, Christlikeness--of others from whom one differed in important matters and with whom one seemed perhaps to have little in common.' In some instances friendship between Forbes and an acquaintance seems to have arisen where very {25} little direct intercourse had taken place. One who was greatly his senior says of him, 'I have never known any one with whom there was so strong a sense of intimacy founded on so little positive intercourse.'