Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold

by Matthew Arnold

  The Grave in Laleham Churchyard

  Where Matthew Arnold, his wife, and three sons are buried

  Photo Ralph Lane

  And now that we have enquired into Arnold’s influence on theology, it is, perhaps, proper to ask what he himself believed. His faith seems to have been, by a curious paradox, far stronger on the Christian than on the Theistic side. “A Stream of Tendency” can never satisfy the idea of God, as ordinary humanity conceives it. It is not in human nature to love a stream of tendency, or worship it, or ask boons of it; or to credit it with powers of design, volition, or creation. A prayer beginning “Stream” would sound as odd as Wordsworth’s ode beginning “Spade.”

  But he had, as we have already seen, an unending admiration — a homage which did not stop far short of worship — for the character and teaching of Jesus Christ; and he placed salvation in conformity to that teaching, as it is explained by St. Paul. And this meant death to sin; the abrogation and annulment of bad habits and tendencies; resurrection with Christ to the higher life which He taught us to pursue. The law was given by Moses, but grace and truth came by Jesus Christ. He would have allowed no antithesis between the two halves of the text, but would have taught that the eternal welfare of man consisted in obeying the Law, receiving the Grace, and pursuing the Truth.

  Nothing more dogmatic than this could safely be put forward as representing his theology; but, though not dogmatic, his mind was intensely ecclesiastical. His contempt for individual whims and fancies, his love of corporate action and collective control, operated as powerfully in the religious as in the social sphere. He admired and clave to the Church of England because it was not, like Miss Cobbe’s new religion and the British College of Health, the product of an individual fancy, setting out to make all things new on a plan of its own. The Church of England, whether it could theologically be called “Catholic” or not, was certainly “the continuous and historical Church of this country.” In 1869 he praised his friend Temple, afterwards Archbishop, for “showing his strong Church feeling, and sense of the value and greatness of the historic development of Christianity, of which the Church is the expression.” It was the National organ for promoting Righteousness and Perfection by means of Culture and for diffusing Sweetness and Light. In the last year of his life he wrote to Mr. Lionel Tollemache: “I consider myself, to adopt your very good expression, a Liberal Anglican; and I think the times are in favour of our being allowed so to call ourselves.”

  As regards differences of opinion inside the Church, he saw no harm in them. He held that the Church must maintain Episcopacy as a matter of historical development, and as “its link with the past — its share in the beauty and the poetry and the charm for the imagination,” which belong to Catholicism. This being so, the “latitudinarianism of the Broad Churchmen” who wished to entice the Dissenters into the Church was “quite illusory” so long as opposition to Episcopacy was one of the main tenets of Nonconformity. But he thought that the Church was likely before long to get rid of the Athanasian Creed and the Thirty-nine Articles; and he urged that, as no one could enforce belief in such doctrines as the Real Presence, Apostolic Succession, and Priestly Absolution, Churchmen who rejected these could quite comfortably remain in the Church, side by side with others who accepted them.

  The Church, then, as historically descended and legally established, ought to be maintained, honoured, and frequented; and, so far, his practice accorded with his belief. He had indeed no more sympathy with hysterical devotions than with fanatical faiths. He saw with amused eye the gestures and behaviour of the “Energumens” during the celebration of Holy Communion in a Ritualistic church— “the floor of the church strewn with what seem to be the dying and the dead, progress to the altar almost barred by forms suddenly dropping as if they were shot in battle, the delighted adoption of vehement rites, till yesterday unknown, adopted and practised now with all that absence of tact, measure, and correct perception in things of form and manner, all that slowness to see when they are making themselves ridiculous, which belongs to the people of our English race.”

  This was a perfectly just criticism on the nascent ritualism of thirty years ago. Time and study have pruned this devotional exuberance, but he rightly described what he saw. With such performances he had no sympathy; but he loved what he had been accustomed to — the grave and reverend method of worship which was traditional in our cathedrals and college chapels. He communicated by preference at an early service. He revelled in the architecture of our great churches, and enjoyed, though he did not understand, their fine music. And he added one or two little mannerisms of his own, which were clearly intended to mark his love of ecclesiastical proprieties. Thus the present writer remembers that he used, with great solemnity and deliberation, to turn to the east at the Creed in Harrow School Chapel, where the clergy neglected to do so. It was the traditional mode of the Church of England, and that was enough for him. Again, we all know that he described the Athanasian Creed as “Learned science with a strong dash of temper”; yet I remember him saying, with an air of stately admiration, after Service on Ascension Day, “I always like to hear the Athanasian Creed sung. But One God sounds so magnificently, with that full swell of the organ. It seems to come with the whole authority of the Church.”

  Then again the list of his favourite writers on religious subjects shows exactly the same taste and temper as was shown by his devotional practices — St. Augustine, that “glorious father of the Catholic Church”; “the nameless author of the Imitatio”; Bishop Thomas Wilson, whose Maxims and Sacra he so constantly quoted; Isaac Barrow, whose sermons he used to read to his family on Sunday evenings; Cardinal Newman, to whom he had listened so delightedly in undergraduate days.

  To pass from an account of a man’s religious sentiment to that of his daily life would in too many cases be an abrupt and even a painful transition; but in the case of Arnold, it is the easiest and most natural in the world. That which he professed he practised, and, as he taught, so he lived. From first to last he was true to his own doctrine that we must cultivate our best self in every department of our being, and be content with nothing less than our predestined perfection. In his character and life, “whatsoever things are lovely” were harmoniously blent.

  Before all else he was a worshipper of nature, watching all her changing aspects with a lover-like assiduity, and never happy in a long-continued separation from her. Then his manifold culture and fine taste enabled him to appreciate at its proper value all that is good in high civilization, and yet the unspoilt naturalness of his character found a zest in the most commonplace pleasures of daily existence. Probably Art, whether in music or painting, affected him less than most men of equal cultivation; but there never lived a human being to whom Literature and Society — books and people — taking each word in its most comprehensive sense, yielded a livelier or more constant joy. “Never,” as Mr. John Morley said, “shall we know again so blithe and friendly a spirit.” As we think of him, the endearing traits come crowding on the memory — his gracious presence, his joy in fresh air and bodily exercise, his merry interest in his friends’ concerns, his love of children, his kindness to animals, his absolute freedom from bitterness, rancour, or envy; his unstinted admiration of beauty, or cleverness, his frank enjoyment of light and colour, of a happy phrase, an apt quotation, a pretty room, a well-arranged dinner, a fine vintage; his childlike pleasure in his own performances— “Did I say that? How good that was!”

  But all these trifling touches of character-painting, perhaps, tend to overlay and obscure the true portraiture of Matthew Arnold. He was pre-eminently a good man, gentle, generous, enduring, laborious, a devoted husband, a most tender father, an unfailing friend. Qualified by nature and training for the highest honours and successes which the world can give, he spent his life in a long round of unremunerative drudgery, working even beyond the limits of his strength for those whom he loved, and never by word or gesture betraying even a consciousness of that harsh indif
ference to his gifts and services which stirred the fruitless indignation of his friends. His theology, once the subject of such animated criticism, seems now a matter of little moment; for, indeed, his nature was essentially religious. He was loyal to truth as he knew it, loved the light and sought it earnestly, and by his daily and hourly practice gave sweet and winning illustration of his own doctrine that conduct is three-fourths of human life.

  We who were happy enough to fall under his personal influence can never overstate what we owe to his genius and his sympathy. He showed us the highest ideal of character and conduct. He taught us the science of good citizenship. He so interpreted nature that we knew her as we had never known her before. He was our fascinating and unfailing guide in the tangled paradise of literature. And, while for all this we bless his memory, we claim for him the praise of having enlarged the boundaries of the Christian Kingdom by making the lives of men sweeter, brighter, and more humane.

  MATTHEW ARNOLD by George Saintsbury

  CONTENTS

  Preface.

  Chapter I. Life till Marriage, and Work till the Publication of the Poems of 1853.

  Chapter II. Life from 1851-62 — Second Series of Poems — Merope — On Translating Homer.

  Chapter III. A French Eton — Essays in Criticism — Celtic Literature — New Poems — Life from 1862 to 1867.

  Chapter IV. In the Wilderness.

  Chapter V. The Last Decade.

  Chapter VI. Conclusion.

  Preface.

  Mr. Matthew Arnold, like other good men of our times, disliked the idea of being made the subject of a regular biography; and the only official and authoritative sources of information as to the details of his life are the Letters published by his family, under the editorship of Mr G.W.E. Russell (2 vols., London, 1895). To these, therefore, it seems to be a duty to confine oneself, as far as such details are concerned, save as regards a very few additional facts which are public property. But very few more facts can really be wanted except by curiosity; for in the life of no recent person of distinction did things literary play so large a part as in Mr Arnold’s: of no one could it be said with so much truth that, family affections and necessary avocations apart, he was totus in illis. And these things we have in abundance. If the following pages seem to discuss them too minutely, it can only be pleaded that those to whom it seems so are hardly in sympathy with Matthew Arnold himself. And if the discussion seems to any one too often to take the form of a critical examination, let him remember Mr. Arnold’s own words in comparing the treatment of Milton by Macaulay and by M. Scherer: —

  “Whoever comes to the Essay on Milton with the desire to get at the real truth about Milton, whether as a man or a poet, will feel that the essay in nowise helps him. A reader who only wants rhetoric, a reader who wants a panegyric on Milton, a panegyric on the Puritans, will find what he wants. A reader who wants criticism will be disappointed.”

  I have endeavoured, in dealing with the master of all English critics in the latter half of the nineteenth century, to “help the reader who wants criticism.”

  Chapter I. Life till Marriage, and Work till the Publication of the Poems of 1853.

  Even those who are by no means greedy of details as to the biography of authors, may without inconsistency regret that Matthew Arnold’s Letters do not begin till he was just five-and-twenty. And then they are not copious, telling us in particular next to nothing about his literary work (which is, later, their constant subject) till he was past thirty. We could spare schoolboy letters, which, though often interesting, are pretty identical, save when written by little prigs. But the letters of an undergraduate — especially when the person is Matthew Arnold, and the University the Oxford of the years 1841-45 — ought to be not a little symptomatic, not a little illuminative. We might have learnt from them something more than we know at present about the genesis and early stages of that not entirely comprehensible or classifiable form of Liberalism in matters political, ecclesiastical, and general which, with a kind of altered Voltairian touch, attended his Conservatism in literature. Moreover, it is a real loss that we have scarcely anything from his own pen about his poems before Sohrab and Rustum — that is to say, about the great majority of the best of them. By the time at which we have full and frequent commentaries on himself, he is a married man, a harnessed and hard-working inspector of schools, feeling himself too busy for poetry, not as yet tempted by promptings within or invitations from without to betake himself to critical prose in any quantity or variety. Indeed, by a not much more than allowable hyperbole, we may say that we start with the book of his poetry all but shut, and the book of his prose all but unopened.

  We must therefore make what we can of the subject, and of course a great deal more is to be made in such a case of the work than of the life. The facts of the latter are but scanty. Matthew Arnold, as all the world knows, was the son — the eldest son — of the famous Dr (Thomas) Arnold, Head-master of Rugby, and Regius Professor of Modern History at Oxford, where he had earlier been a Fellow of Oriel. Dr Arnold survives in the general memory now chiefly by virtue of his head-mastership, which was really a remarkable one, whatever distinction it may owe to the loyalty of such a group of pupils as his son, Dean Stanley, Clough, “Tom Brown” Hughes, and others. But he was, if not positively great, a notable and influential person in many ways. As a historian he was alert and intelligent, though perhaps too much under the influence of that subtlest and most dangerous kind of “popular breeze” which persuades those on whom it blows that they are sailing not with but away from the vulgar. As a scholar he was ingenious, if not very erudite or deep. He was really a master, and has been thought by some good judges a great master, of that admirable late Georgian academic style of English prose, which is almost the equal of the greatest. But he was, if not exactly cupidus novarum rerum in Church and State, very ready to entertain them; he was curiously deficient in logic; and though the religious sense was strong in him, he held, and transmitted to his son, the heresy — the foundation of all heresies — that religion is something that you can “bespeak,” that you can select and arrange to your own taste; that it is not “to take or to leave” at your peril and as it offers itself.

  On August 11, 1820, Dr Arnold married Mary Penrose, and as he had devoted his teaching energies, which were early developed, not to school or university work, but to the taking of private pupils at Laleham on the Thames, between Staines and Chertsey, their eldest son was born there, on Christmas Eve, 1822. He was always enthusiastic about the Thames valley, though not more so than it deserves, and in his very earliest letter (January 2, 1848) we find record of a visit, when he found “the stream with the old volume, width, shine, rapid fulness, ‘kempshott,’ and swans, unchanged and unequalled.” He was only six years old when his father was elected to the head-mastership of Rugby; he was educated in his early years at his birthplace, where an uncle, the Rev. John Buckland, carried on the establishment, and at the age of fourteen he was sent to Winchester, his father’s school. Here he only remained a year, and entered Rugby in August 1837. He remained there for four years, obtaining an open Balliol scholarship in 1840, though he did not go up till October 1841. In 1840 he had also gained the prize for poetry at Rugby itself with Alaric at Rome, a piece which was immediately printed, but never reprinted by its author, though it is now easily obtainable in the 1896 edition of those poems of his which fell out of copyright at the seven years after his death.

  It is an observation seldom falsified, that such exercises, by poets of the higher class, display neither their special characteristics, nor any special characteristics at all. Matthew Arnold’s was not one of the exceptions. It is very much better than most school prize poems: it shows the critical and scholarly character of the writer with very fair foreshadowing; but it does not fore-shadow his poetry in the very least. It is quite free from the usual formal faults of a boy’s verse, except some evidences of a deficient ear, especially for rhyme (“full” and “beautiful,” “pala
ces” and “days”). It manages a rather difficult metre (the sixain rhymed ababcc and ending with an Alexandrine) without too much of the monotony which is its special danger. And some of the tricks which the boy-poet has caught are interesting and abode with him, such as the anadiplosis —

  “Yes, there are stories registered on high,

  Yes, there are stains Time’s fingers cannot blot”;

  in which kind he was to produce some years later the matchless

  “Still nursing the unconquerable hope,

  Still clutching the inviolable shade,”

  of the Scholar-Gipsy. On the whole, the thing is correct but colourless; even its melancholy is probably mere Byronism, and has nothing directly to do with the later quality of Dover Beach and Poor Matthias.

  Of Mr Arnold’s undergraduate years we have unluckily but little authentic record, and, as has been said, not one letter. The most interesting evidence comes from Principal Shairp’s well-known lines in Balliol Scholars, 1840-1843, written, or at least published, many years later, in 1873: —