generation of the critic, as his great predecessor in the two arts, himself secure and supreme in both, had scornfully said.  Both faculties had always existed, and did always exist, side by side in him.  He might exercise one more freely at one time, one at another; but the author of the Preface of 1853 was a critic, and a ripe one, in his heyday of poetry, the author of Westminster Abbey was a poet in his mellowest autumn of criticism.

And yet he was something more than both these things, more than both of these at once.  But for that unlucky divagation in the Wilderness, his life would have been the life of a man of letters only as far as choice went, with the duties of no dishonourable profession superadded.  And even with the divagation it was mainly and really this.  To find parallels for Mr Arnold in his unflinching devotion to literature we must, I fear, go elsewhere than to Dryden or to Coleridge, we must go to Johnson and Southey.  And here again we may find something in him beyond both, in that he had an even nobler conception of Literature than either.  That he would have put her even too high, would have assigned to her functions which she is unable to discharge, is true enough; but this is at least no vulgar error.  Against ignoble neglect, against stolid misunderstanding, against mushroom rivalry, he championed her alike.  And it was most certainly from no base motive.  If he wanted an English Academy, I am quite sure it was not from any desire for a canary ribbon or a sixteen-pointed star.  Yet, after Southey himself in the first half of the century, who has done so much for letters qua letters as Mr Arnold in the second?  His poems were never popular, and he tried no other of the popular departments of literature.  But he wrote, and I think he could write, nothing that was not literature, in and by the fact that he was its writer.  It has been observed of others in other kinds, that somehow or other, by merely living, by pursuing their own arts or crafts whatever they were, they raised those arts and crafts in dignity, they bestowed on them as it were a rank, a position.  A few—­a very few—­at successive times have done this for literature in England, and Mr Arnold was perhaps the last who did it notably in ours.  One cannot imagine him writing merely for money, for position, even for fame—­for anything but the devoir of the born and sworn servant of Apollo and Pallas.  Such devotion need not, of course, forbid others of their servants to try his shield now and then with courteous arms or even at sharps—­as he tried many.  But it was so signal, so happy in its general results, so exactly what was required in and for England at the time, that recognition of it can never be frank enough, or cordial enough, or too much admiring.  Whenever I think of Mr Arnold it is in those own words of his, which I have quoted already, and which I quoted to myself on the hill by Hinksey as I began this little book in the time of fritillaries—­