There is a highly suggestive sentence in one of the Letters, which runs thus: "Perfection in the region of the highest poetry demands a tearing of one's self to pieces, which men do not readily consent to, unless driven by their demon to do so." There, surely, we have the explanation of which we are in search, in eight words. Though he has left works in verse that will not die, Thyrsis, The Scholar Gypsy, Obermann once more, etc., still at no time of his life did Matthew Arnold "tear himself to pieces." He preferred to cultivate tranquillity. He wrote some most beautiful poetry, but he was not driven by his demon to do so, and at length he ceased to write poetry altogether.

Little or nothing has been said here concerning Matthew Arnold, the writer of refined and exquisite prose, the acute literary critic, the forcible yet urbane controversialist, the zealous spiritual teacher, the untiring advocate of sweetness and light, the moralist whose utterances were all inspired by high seriousness. But, to point out what a man has done in one domain

of mental energy, and to forget altogether what he did in other domains, is to do him great injustice. Yet is not this what nearly all of us do to

those writers who have worked for us

with a generous versatility? We lay stress on that portion of his work in which we ourselves, in our narrowness, and with our limitations, alone are interested, and pass over the rest. We insist on his poetry and ignore his prose, or we extol the prose and forget the poetry; or, perhaps, we remember his idylls because we happen to like these best since they are just suited to our capacity and comprehension, and treat as non-existent, or as of no importance, longer and nobler poems, because these are caviare to us. Let us not do that injustice to Matthew Ar

nold. If his poems had been his sole contribution to the good of his fellowcreatures, he would still have deserved to be kept in eternal remembrance by them. Had he written no verse, but only the literary, the religious, and the spiritual criticism he has left behind him, he would still have merited immunity from oblivion. But he wrote both verse and prose, beautiful verse, delightful prose, and did so much beside, as a Servant of the State, as a friend of education, as a champion of whatever he thought for the benefit of the human race. It would scarcely be an exaggeration to say of him :

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. . . omne immensum peragravit mente animoque."

The area of his intellectual activity was immense; so large, indeed, that it is only by an effort of memory we can picture to ourselves its extent.

But higher praise still has surely to be bestowed on Matthew Arnold. He was a man of rare gifts. But he was likewise a model son, a model husband, a model citizen. Genius, though not an everyday phenomenon, is, I suppose, and, perhaps, there never was, before, as frequent in these days as in others and, perhaps, there never was, before,

so much cleverness as is now to be ob

;

served in almost every walk of life. But Character-character that shows ness, in good and conscientious citizenitself in filial piety, in conjugal tendership-is perhaps not too conspicuous, especially in persons exceptionally endowed. One looks in vain for a serious blemish in Matthew Arnold's Character. It has been said, surely with

truth,

"Not all the noblest songs are worth
One noble deed.' ""

But, in his case, there is no antithesis between teaching and example. He wrote beautiful songs; and his life, as these Letters show, was one long noble deed.―National Review.

I MET him first at the house of Mrs. Van Weiss; she married the celebrated Dutch savant and argued him to death in three short years. The afternoon was hot; the tea was brackish; there was a deaf man present who said "What?" whenever any one uttered a remark that was more than ordinarily inane; the interesting woman we had been asked to meet was not present, or, if she was present, she was not interesting; and I had to sit with my face to the light. Altogether, the function was a failure. The elements of the social mess were too incongruous, and Mr. Hilary Jybe's poor seasoning of boneless paradoxes was very wet salt indeed.

The Man of Silence sat in the bay of the window, on a blue-cushioned shelf, with one leg tucked under him and the other dangling. He was the only person present who did not wear patent-leather boots. He was a big, spare man, with a heavy, sallow face and fluffy locks. He had fine eyes and a strong mouth. Every other man

had a bunch of hair stuck under his nose, but the Man of Silence was cleanshaven. During the half hour I stayed the talk was mainly of geniuses: this was a subject we all felt competent to pronounce upon out of our inner consciousness. There was the usual hot disparagement of popular idols, and Hilary Jybe asked: If success is not genius, what is it?" To which the Man of Silence replied: "An accident."

who are not geniuses." But Hilary Jybe's flattery often takes that form.

II.

A week elapsed, and I went again to see Mrs. Van Weiss. The Man of Silence was there, and this time we shook hands. He had forsaken his seat in the bay of the window for a low, red-wood chair, with arms. There was a yellow cushion behind his head, against which his dark, virile face showed in strong relief. The light was on him. I noticed that there were lines on his brow and about his mouth, crudely graven; there were other lines running back from the corners of his eyes: these were laughterlines, and they had been deeper. The shadow of some great sorrow had darkened the light of mirth in his face; but it played there still at times as sunshine plays on a frozen pool. His clothes were well cut and of good material, but slightly worn over the joints. He was shabby enough to pass for a rich man, but too neat and tidy; every detail of his dress was in prim order; his linen was immaculate and he was careful of it: from these evidences I gleaned that he was poor. And I pitied him. For he was too big and unworldly, too sensitive, too refined, to bear with necessary stoicism the mean ills of poverty. I knew this quite as well then as I know it now, for his was the face that mirrors character.

I sat down beside him and endeavored to draw him out. I asked him for his opinion on a variety of topics, and he was obviously pleased. But he would not talk. He frowned deprecatingly, and spread his hands, and shrugged his shoulders. Once he said: "I really know nothing of the subject," which I thought was the most original excuse for silence I had ever heard. And then he got up and went away.

"Who is he?" I asked Mrs. Van Weiss.

"His name is Mark Ashford," said she, and he writes poetry. Mrs. Cuslip took him up originally-I don't know where she found him; and when she went away abroad she handed him over to me. We are quite old enemies, you know, Mrs. Cuslip and I; so I am keeping him warm against her return. But he is an awful nuisance. Do you want him?” "Yes," I said eagerly; "I should "I should like to have him very much." "When I go away I will let you know and you can write to him and ask him to call on you. You will probably have him very much then. But I don't think you will care about him. I suspect that no one will ever discover him. He is something of an incubus, too, and his silence is like a long, long sneer. Still, if you will take the risk ?" "I will have him," I said. And so it was settled.

III.

He came to me docilely enough, and sat in my window-seat and stared at my visitors with admirable self-possession. He always wore the same clothes and the same listening expression of countenance, and he loved best to tuck a leg under him. He was very rude, if it be rude to ignore rules of etiquette; he did not rush to open the door for my lady-visitors or trouble to hand them their tea, perhaps he thought they were strong enough to do these things for themselves. But people liked him for his rudeness and asked me who he was; they thought he must be some one of consequence. When I told them his name and added "the poet, you know," they vaguely said, O yes, of course,' and went away, wondering. He lost me several undesirable friends.

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To mark my gratitude I invited him. to dinner. He came attired in a dresscoat and waistcoat of smooth, glossy cloth, and rough hairy black trousers. There were two other people present, but I was careful to shield his trousers from them. Fortunately they were prosperous sleepy people who took details for granted.

He drank four glasses of wine and

ate all that was put before him. Throughout the meal he said nothing. He missed no points in the conversation, however, and I saw the twilight smile on his face very often, for one of us was a snob and another was a Socialist. After dinner he began to talk. As a preliminary, he stretched out his ridiculously-clad legs and locked his hands behind his head. At first he stammered and was husky, it was as if the gates of speech were rusty in him; but, soon, his tones gained strength and volume, and the words came in an easy, level flood. He had a fine voice, deep and strong, and the matter of his talk was good as the manner. I was too astonished to do aught but listen, and well content at that; even my guests, who had no experience of him and were disposed to ignore him at the table, gave him respectful audience.

He made us laugh and he laughed at us, yet without offence; he showed us truth; he led us through_wildernesses of brilliant fancy into Canaans of thought that we had only viewed and stretched out hands to from the Pisgahs of vain longing; his wit was strong and lambent as the sunshine; he made us want to cry. . . For an hour he discoursed to us and then he rose and departed. It was as if the sun had been extinguished at midday when he was gone; the light seemed to grow dim on the instant, and the very room to become small and mean. We sat brooding, with heavy brains, and parted in silence. But that night, in my sleep, his voice came back to me, and I was sitting at his feet again.

Four days passed and I saw him once more. He called on an afternoon when my drawing-room was very full. As was his wont, he went to his seat in the bay of the window and tucked one leg under him and stared at my visitors as they came and went in silent self-possession, long sustained.

IV.

It may be that my sex has not yet transpired. I am а woman. Ten years ago I was very famous. I wrote a book and it was a success. But I

have had the misfortune to survive myself. For two or three years everybody talked about me, and the critics reached up to pat me on the back. Unfortunately, in these quick-shifting times, to-day's vogue is often to-morrow's boredom. It was discovered very suddenly-in the office of The Mocking Bird, I think-that I was beneath contempt, and a young man, very fresh from Cambridge, put me under his heel and squashed me. At first I did not realize that I was dead, and when, in the course of time, my friends assured me that it was so, the habit of not dying had grown too strong upon me, with the result that I survive myself to this day. I am rich, having made much money by my bad books. I live in a big house and have many friends. I go out a good deal and am popular; I give dinners and they are well attended. I know everybody, and, as а consequence, my "afternoons" are famous. I think I should be quite happy if only I were a little older or a little younger.

V.

The Man of Silence sent me a letter, enclosing a poem, and asking me to lend him ten pounds. The poem was charming; the letter was pathetic. He said that he was very poor and had bad health. I sent him the ten pounds and the act warmed me. A request for a loan is sometimes a very clever compliment. He came in person to thank me. I was alone when he canie. He took my hand and raised it to his lips; there was nothing theatrical in his demeanor: he preserved his dig

nity quite intact," he said.

It was awful," he said. "I wish now I had not asked you, but I was so hard pressed."

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"It was nothing," I answered; "I am glad you came to me, and I hope you will come again if you are in need. He thanked me with his eyes. 'You are very good," he murmured, "but you don't know. I am so ridiculously sensitive, I suppose. And I have no friends." I checked him with a gesture of deprecation. "I am honored," he said, and inclined his head in a courtly obeisance. "I hope that

you are sincere. I believe you are. But my life has been a lonely one. I have lived too much within a world of my own creation, perhaps. Yet I feel a very real need for sympathy sometimes. May I say that I suspect you feel a similar need ?"

I met his gaze. "If I am rude, forgive me," he cried, "and believe that I offend quite unwittingly, if I do offend." "You do not, I stam

mered.

"I am quite unused to the customs of polite society," he said, smiling wanly; "that must stand as my excuse. And, after all, it is possible that polite society is wrong. I believe that so much reticence in speech and conduct is as unnecessary as it is futile. You will admit that it deceives no one. We all know one another if we know ourselves." "But we do not, as & rule,” I remarked.

He pondered. That is true," he remarked; "that is very true." And he lapsed into silence. It was a delicious morsel of flattery, all the more delicious because it seemed unconscious. I could have grinned with pleasure my feeling of gratification was so intense.

Other people came and our colloquy ended. He did not speak again until he bade me "Good-by," but he looked at me occasionally with interested eyes that seemed to say, "You are small to hold so much wisdom."

a very few days he repaid my He sent me the money in a let"I would come and see you," he

wrote, but I am feeling ill and weak and stupid. Perhaps, I often think this-I am a figure too many in the sum of humanity and God is smudging me out. I had thought I was a cipher and did not matter." I missed him more than I cared to own.

He wrote again. This was his third

letter. He asked for a new loan of twenty pounds. I did not hesitate to send him the money. As before, he came in person to thank me. I was shocked at the change in him. was thinner; the lustre of his fine eyes was dimmed; his brow was puckered

He

in two peevish, upright lines; his figure drooped and his voice was dry and husky.

"You have been very ill ?" I said. ill?" No, no," he replied. I was filled with pity for him. He went over to his seat in the bay of the window and tucked his leg under him and regarded me wistfully. There were other people present, and I got no opportunity to speak with him apart. I wanted him to stay to dinner, but he would not. When he had gone his mournful eyes haunted me. They stirred up some old sensations I thought I had

buried.

He came again. He stayed only a short while, and during that time others were present, as before, so that we got no opportunity to draw close to one another. I noticed that he had grown still more haggard and thin; I thought there was an alteration in his dress, too; he looked almost untidy; the usual scrupulous neatness of his attire was abated somewhat. I did not want to see this; but habit has accustomed my eyes to be more than ordinarily observant.

"Why not stay to dinner ?" I whispered, at parting. He looked himself over in a short glance. "Thank you," he said; but I cannot, now. "Come back," I said. He shook his head. “I . . . no, ," he said, and went away, walking very forlornly as it seemed to me.

I did not see him or hear from him for three weeks after that. I thought of him always; but what could I do? At last, I resolved to write to him. I was loth to do this, because of the money he owed me; and I have a clumsy pen at times. But I was torn with anxious thought of him and there was no other way. He replied in a long letter that will always be interesting to me.

I have been very ill," he said. "I am better now, but I do not think I shall ever come to see you again. I shall go away. I feel that it will be best. There is such a great gulf between us." He regretted that he was not yet able to repay my loan-he could never repay more than the money part of it; but he would send me something as he was able. He had

been offered a post as usher in a boys' school in the north of England, which he would accept. He could not refrain from adding: "I pray that I may make a better usher than poet." He had struck his pen through the words very determinedly; but I puzzled them out.

His letter filled me with grief and despair. I could not bear that he should thus be forced to warp and stultify himself. I had seen the heart of the man and I knew him. He was a king by the one supreme right of kingship. I went to a drawer and took out his poem. But I did not need to read it; I knew it by heart. I conned his letter again. The words seemed written in fire. In knowing him I knew myself, and the knowledge made me tremble and laugh and cry.

And he was alone, and ill, and poor. The darkness came down and I sat brooding over this new thing that had come to me. The servant entered with lights, and my cheeks flamed suddenly.

VII.

In spite of my personal vanity I am something of a dowdy, I believe; at least, I have heard my friends tell one another so. But, just now, I felt that dramatic propriety demanded a nice gown and orderly hair; so I went early to my room to evolve a toilette. I sat down at my dressing-table and fell into reverie. I held a long colloquy with my reflection in the looking-glass. It all ended in my bundling up my hair in my usual impatient, clumsy fashion, and leaving my elaborate toilette in permanent embryo. I am the most absent-minded of mortals and did not realize my remissness until I was splashing along in a cab through the puddles and slush; then I was sorry and honestly wished that I had troubled more to make the best of myself.

My driver stopped his cab several times to inquire the way. The street in which Mark Ashford lived was called Limber Street, and it was located very far from the centre of town. The ride lasted an hour. The cab stopped, at last, outside a public-house, and the driver asked me, hoarsely :-" What number, miss ?"