Hence, as one looks at his more philosophical and lyrical poems—­the profounder part of his work—­and endeavors to determine their character and sources alike, it is plain to see that in the old phrase, “the pride of the intellect” lifts its lonely column over the desolation of every page.  The man of the academy is here, as in the prose, after all.  He reveals himself in the literary motive, the bookish atmosphere of the verse, in its vocabulary, its elegance of structure, its precise phrase and its curious allusions (involving footnotes), and in fact, throughout all its form and structure.  So self-conscious is it that it becomes frankly prosaic at inconvenient times, and is more often on the level of eloquent and graceful rhetoric than of poetry.  It is frequently liquid and melodious, but there is no burst of native song in it anywhere.  It is the work of a true poet, nevertheless; but there are many voices for the Muse.  It is sincere, it is touched with reality; it is the mirror of a phase of life in our times, and not in our times only, but whenever the intellect seeks expression for its sense of the limitation of its own career, and its sadness in a world which it cannot solve.

A word should be added concerning the personality of Arnold which is revealed in his familiar letters,—­a collection that has dignified the records of literature with a singularly noble memory of private life.  Few who did not know Arnold could have been prepared for the revelation of a nature so true, so amiable, so dutiful.  In every relation of private life he is shown to have been a man of exceptional constancy and plainness.  The letters are mainly home letters; but a few friendships also yielded up their hoard, and thus the circle of private life is made complete.  Every one must take delight in the mental association with Arnold in the scenes of his existence, thus daily exposed, and in his family affections.  A nature warm to its own, kindly to all, cheerful, fond of sport and fun, and always fed from pure fountains, and with it a character so founded upon the rock, so humbly serviceable, so continuing in power and grace, must wake in all the responses of happy appreciation, and leave the charm of memory.

He did his duty as naturally as if it required neither resolve, nor effort, nor thought of any kind for the morrow, and he never failed, seemingly, in act or word of sympathy, in little or great things; and when, to this, one adds the clear ether of the intellectual life where he habitually moved in his own life apart, and the humanity of his home, the gift that these letters bring may be appreciated.  That gift is the man himself; but set in the atmosphere of home, with son-ship and fatherhood, sisters and brothers, with the bereavements of years fully accomplished, and those of babyhood and boyhood,—­a sweet and wholesome English home, with all the cloud and sunshine of the English world drifting over its roof-tree, and the soil of England beneath its stones, and English duties for the breath of its being.  To add such a home to the household-rights of English literature is perhaps something from which Arnold would have shrunk, but it endears his memory.