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Show gjr Edward Arnold, who died last week in Lon- don was one of the great literary lights of his age. Nothing in literature is sweeter than some things that he wrote, nothing higher. When the spell was on him he was in truth a world-master I in setting great thoughts to words. But there was something indefinable in his nature. His I countrymen never gave to him the love and rev-B rev-B erenco which they gave several of his contempor- B aries. H There must have been something common in B bis nature, something that in his daily walk ob- B scured his divine part. There is not an English B child ten years old that cannot tell all about Lord B Tennyson; not one in ten could tell of T3dward B Arnold. He must have lived much within him- B self, and something in the picture of his face in- B dlcates that he had many a struggle with his Bj grosser self before he wrote: B "I lay aside those realms B Which wait the gleaming of my naked sword; B My chariot shall not roll with bloody wheels B From victory to victory, till earth B Wears the red record of my name." B England's great valhalla holds the dust of B many a one who on earth had not a soul so great B as had Edward Arnold. |