d, by those who have read it, whether
"cutting blocks with a razor" is such a Gothamite proceeding as it is
sometimes held to be. For in this case the blocks are chopped as well
as the homeliest bill-hook could do it; and we know that the razor was
none the blunter. At any rate, the ethical document is one of the
highest value, and very fit, indeed, to be recommended to the
attention of young gentlemen of genius who think it the business of
the State to provide for them, and not to require any dismal drudgery
from them in return.

But the importance of Mr Arnold to English history and English
literature has, of course, little or nothing to do with his official
work. The faithful performance of that work is important to his
character; and the character of the work itself colours very
importantly, and, as we have seen, not perhaps always to unmitigated
advantage, the nature of his performances as a man of letters. But it
is as a man of letters, as a poet, as a critic, and perhaps most of
all as both combined, that he ranks for history and for the world.

A detailed examination of his poetic performance has been attempted in
the earlier pages of this little book, as well as some general remarks
upon it; but we may well find room here for something more general
still. That the poet is as much above the prose-writer in rank as he
is admittedly of an older creation, has always been held; and here, as
elsewhere, I am not careful to attempt innovation. In fact, though it
may seem unkind to say so, it may be suspected that nobody has ever
tried to elevate the function of the prose-writer above that of the
poet, unless he thought he could write great prose and knew he could
not write great poetry. But in another order of estimate than this, Mr
Arnold's poetic work may seem of greater value than his prose, always
admirable and sometimes consummate as the latter is, if we take each
at its best.

At its best--and this is how, though he would himself seem to have
sometimes felt inclined to dispute the fact, we must reckon a poet.
His is not poetry of the absolutely trustworthy kind. It is not like
that of Shelley or of Keats, who, when their period of mere juvenility
is past, simply cannot help writing poetry; nor is it, on the other
hand, like that of Wordsworth, who flies and flounders with an
incalculable and apparently irresponsible alternation. It is
rather--though I should rank it far higher, on all but the historic
estimat