The Universalist. [volume] (Chicago [Ill.]) 1884-1897, 1896-11-14
THE LETTERS OF MATTHEW
ARNOLD.
BY HATTIE TYING GRIswoLD.

The appearance of the letters of
MATTHEW ARNOLD last year gave the
reading world for the first time an
opportunity to correctly estimate the
character of the man. Before that
time he was in reality the Great Un-
known, although he had been before
the public in his capacity of author
for forty years at least.
To all lovers of his books the work
affords great pleasure. 1t is beau
tiful life that is revealed in it-a life
of absolute self denial-of loving SER
vice-of great disappointment and
discouragement heroically borne-of
unremitting drudgery in an uncon-
genial occupation-of lofty aspira-
tion and endeavor-of the gentlest
human kindness to every living thing
of serenity amid things evil, and of
deep religious feeling under the
outer guise of dissent against preva-
lent dogma.
The pity of it all, the almost shame
of it all, to England, who so loved
and honored his father, DR.. Arnold,
of Rugby, is unbearable. That one
of the first literary men of his time,
one of it's most original thinkers and
polished poets, perhaps its finest
educator, should have been left
throughout his life to the deep
drudgery of inspecting schools, look
ing over the examination papers of
girls and boys, and other routine
work, was sad commentary on the
intelligence of his native land. Only
late in life did the government recog-
nize him to the extent of giving him
a pension of f250. This, while a
help, did not enasyes him to retire,
and the American lecture tour was
undertaken in the hope of saving
enough from its receipts to accom-
plish this much desired end. He
never had more than the odds and
ends of his time for literary work
| yet how much he accomplished of
enduring work. Like Longfellow
who throughout the long years of his
+ professorship at Harvard, was con-
stantly lamenting his want of time
to write the poeL. which were ring
ing in his brain, Arnold was pressed
at all times by the literary work
he wanted to do, but must put by
for his school work. He complains
but little, but the irksomeness of it
all told upon his spirits as the years
went by. His books never became
really popular, and his returns from
them were comparatively small. He
lived in and about London the
greater part of his life, making his
journeys from that point. That sort
of travelling was wearisome, and it
kept him much of the time away
from the home he so much loved,
with its numerous children, and de-
voted wife. Toward the close of his
life he retired to Harrow, where he was
much happier, being a poet, and en-
Enthusiastically fond of all country
sights and sounds.
He was especially fond of Fox How,
in Westmoreland, the home of his
mother, where he revelled in country
pleasures for few weeks each year.
To this mother, and indeed to his
whole family, he was very devoted,
and a large share of the letters are
addressed to them. He relates to
them all his literary triumphs, re-
ports to them the praises he has
received with the innocent naiUette of
boy, and expresses his deep affec-
tion to all thousand times over. As
kind and fond son and brother the
world seldom sees. But they were
congenial to him as all ones relatives
are not, shared his intellectual tastes
and were capable of appreciating
fully his best work. This undoubt-
edly kept the bond of family life
alive, in a rather unusual way. All
his readers will remembe the poem
entitled "a Southern Night" in
which he celebrates the loss of
brother who died at Gibraltar on his
way home from the East:
"The murmur of the Midland deep
Is heard tonight around thy grave.
There where Gibraltar's cannoned steep
Ger frowns the wave"
The wife of this brother had been
buried in India and he continues:
For there where mornings sacred fount
It's golden rain on earth eonfers
The snowy Himalayan Mount
Ger shadows hers"
"Strange irony of Fate, alas,
Which for two jaded ENGLISH sons
When from their common life they pass,
Such peaceful graves"
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