built on the same lines. Few have been so self-centred, and none pleases us more whenever we are in that mood in which, dividing ourselves from all mankind, we choose to cherish our own personality, to sit in its silent chambers, to reject the Not-me, to believe that in our own being is the universe, that nothing exists beyond ourselves. To that strange mood, which may have its good if it last a short time, but which has certainly its own naughtiness, Arnold speaks, and has revealed its thoughts in a poetry full of subtle and impassioned charm. It came out of the depths of his nature; but he could not always remain in these solitudes of the soul, He fled from them into sympathy with the sorrow and confusion of men; and the mingling of these two opposites—and they are frequently mingled, even in single poems—gives this uncommon note of distinction to his poetry; a human cry, shrill and piercing as of a soul divided, beating between two moods, and angry with the indecision. The instrument on which he plays is like a violin played by a regretful artist in a lonely room.
These are considerations concerning his poetry which arise out of his character. There are others which arise from the condition of the world when he began to write. It was a time (and I repeat what I have already said in writing of Clough), when the old foundations of the Christian faith were no longer accepted without inquiry. They were dug down to, exposed to the dry light of science, and to a searching
