THERE is a custom among certain of our contributors which, although we are clined to regard it as pernicious in its bearing upon the welfare of the TUFTOthoroughly intrenched through the force of precedent that it could probably be exceeding difficulty. We refer to the custom of submitting anonymous n. Granted, it may be, that there are circumstances in which the author is ng his identity. The inexperienced writer, for instance, very naturally ng his name to his most bold and original attempts, having observed that instances as his, inclined to refer to a personal source every touch of nature ence which can be nothing less than obnoxious to a writer of any delicacy. however, are peculiar and rarely present themselves, on which ground they se, be left out of consideration. But, with the foregoing exception, we te of the imposing array of precedents, it may fairly be demanded of the or that he shall present a particular reason for withholding his name. A Yet we will venture that the attitude of hardly a single member of this class as much. When closely questioned, he shifts uneasily from one position finally discloses that the sole support to his shrinking attitude is a certain ich, if he will be so candid with himself as to analyze it, and ruthlessly lay , he will discover to be rather a perverted sense of delicacy akin almost to that lowly temper which accompanies a moderate estimation of one's own

ce.

limited observation, we have been harsh in our judgment, the practice of er not warranting the imputation we have laid against him. Let it be at he is not wanting in self-respect, and assumed that there are other motives To discover what those motives are, we evidently have recourse to infere reason correctly, he should either gracefully accept the conclusion, or admit

that his position is untenable, failing even of a poor support. Starting then from this new point of view, it will be necessary to ask first just what the vital element of interest in a literary production really is. Evidently it lies either in its intrinsic merit, or in the personality of the writer,that is, in the friendly interest which one man may have in another. This personal element, which is no less essential in the crude production of the embryo author than it is in the presentation of the amateur dramatist, being once withdrawn, the fruit of his labor is denied the very sap which supports its life, and consequently falls withered and dead, like a broken limb. Now the very presenting of the writer's article for publication is identical with the assurance that it will receive attention from the reader. Therefore, if there is any method at all in his position, from an evasive signature, we can only infer an assumption on his part that the intrinsic merit of his production is such that it may compete successfully with periodical literature in general and draw its share of patronage. So we find in this instance that we are carried by simple reason to the other extreme, and with all due candor we naturally infer the direct antithesis of modesty as the motive of the anonymous writer. In our opinion, however, this conclusion is, as it stands, harsher than the facts really warrant, for the offence of the anonymous contributor is in a great measure mitigated by the fact that he really does not understand his own motives, never having taken the care to analyze them. The reader may verify from his personal experience that a man is often swayed by impulses whose influence he never would have suspected were they not occasionally revealed to him by sudden shocks or by unexpected events. Moreover, it is quite possible that we may have gone astray through overlooking some important motives which were not apparent. Indeed, as we reflect, this seems quite plausible; for it just occurs to us that it is perhaps a spirit of coyness which animates many of this distressing class to remain in hiding, and that the illusive nom de plume is presented merely in the way of a little frolic of " peek-a-boo " with the curious reader. As a final persuasion for the discontinuance of this practice, we will assure these misguided authors that the tendency with the majority of readers is to turn away with indifference from an article which has no signature appended.

It is purely a coincidence, but it has chanced that we have a contributor for the present issue who is suffering with one of the most malignant forms of the distemper which we have been attempting to diagnose. If the reader is curious to make the acquaintance of this genus anonymous let him turn to the brief article to which is attached the mystic signature" Lew Omai." As to the identity of "Lewy," as his mother would call him, the editors have not the slightest clue, since the article was sent to us through the mail, and directed in a painfully disguised handwriting. The few lines of explanation accompanying it stated that it professed to be a very free translation of the "Conversion of Saint Osric." The production has undoubted merit, as the reader may see for himself, and displays a rugged strength and vehemence which we have rarely seen attained in a college publication. Still we have not the slightest evidence that it is the work of a Tufts student, and it is only its exceptional merit which has made place for it in this issue, for in the opinion of the present board of editors, it should be the declared policy of the TUFTONIAN, never to print an article whose author refuses to reveal his identity to the editors at least. They would suggest to the TUFTONIAN the revival, with some modification, of a wise old English enactment proposed in the seventeenth century, to oblige every person that writes a book, or paper, to swear himself the author of it, and enter down in a public register his name and place of abode.

While dealing with this matter we cannot avoid the temptation to discuss for a moment an aspect of it which has no bearing upon the TUFTONIAN, but which, since it is a college matter, comes easily within our province. We have in mind that aspect displayed in the class annuals. It is not our purpose to inveigh against anonymous writing in that publication, but we cannot find language strong enough to express our contempt for the detestable abuse of that privilege which custom has placed in the hands of its contributors. The practice of class-day historians and prophets may be criticised as unduly severe, but it has at least the reclaiming element of boldness about it. The libelous writer, under the cover of the annual, however, shoots his poisoned darts in the dark, his writhing victim like

"Fierce Volcens foams with rage, and gazing round

Descry'd not him who gave the fatal wound;

Nor knew to fix revenge."

The annual offers an opportunity for the mean and ungenerous spirit to vent upon some helpless individual all the petty spites and animosities which he has treasured up against him during the course of two years. Addison relates of Pope Sextus Quintus that upon discovering one of these secret satirists he ordered him to be disabled for the future by having his tongue cut out and both his hands chopped off. A harsh sentence, perhaps, but still one which indicates some appreciation at least of justice.

Matthew Arnold, told us that poetry is, in essence, a criticism of life; that the

ARNOLD, with keen discrimination and logical insight, has

the Poet.

true poet has ever before him the question how to live; that the greatness of a poet lies in his powerful and beautiful application of ideas to life. The same question, which in as great a degree engages the mind of the ethical and religious teacher, is also the motive which inspires the poet to the production of his greatest work. The aim of both is in a large degree the same. Both ask the question, “What is the worth of life?" and both are untiring in their efforts to solve the problem. Many critics have made between the two provinces a wide and chasmy difference, whereas in reality they are inseparable. The poet who disregards moral ideas in the same degree ignores the dignity of life. He cannot, from his very nature, be indifferent to them, for with such an action he is also indifferent toward the fulness of life.

It is because Matthew Arnold deals with life in his poetry that one claims for him a high place among the innumerable host of the present century. Not only does he deal with life, for all true poets do that, but he deals with it more richly, more variedly, above all, more abundantly. He is one who has felt the nobility of his calling, and because his inner life was touched with earnestness has produced works of intrinsic merit and of enduring excellence. Intellectual and emotional seriousness give to his poetry an ideal and spiritual side, which is a distinguishing characteristic. Arnold is himself the embodiment of his own beautiful thought that

"Tasks in hours of insight willed

Can be through hours of gloom fulfilled."

Examples of this dignity of intellect and seriousness of emotion are everywhere prevalent throughout the poetic work of Arnold.

A great critic has said that there were three great commemorable elegies in English literature: "Lycidas," "Lycidas," "Adonais," and Matthew Arnold's "Thyrsis." Whether this praise be unduly given or not is perhaps a matter for the critics to decide, but confess we must that it is truly a monody of melancholy sweetness and lyrical charm. We must notice at least one stanza from this poem, which is one of the best, and adequately illustrates "the mildness and sweet seasonableness," together with the intellectual seriousness and emotional refinement, of our poet. The ode is a lament commemorative of his brother-poet and friend, Arthur Hugh Clough, who died at Florence in the year 1861.

"Yes, thou art gone! and round me, too, the night

In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade.

I see her veil draw soft across the day,

I feel her slowly chilling breath invade

The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent with grey;

I feel her finger light laid pausefully upon life's headlong train,

The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew,

The heart less bounding at emotion new,

And hope, once crushed, less quick to spring again.”

If there be to you any meaning in the phrase, “emotional calmness," I am sure it is the quality which pervades verse of this kind. Because it was a quality of this poet's mind, it becomes a quality inseparable from his style. "Calm 's not life's crown, though calm is well.” In the sweet, simple, and pathetic poem entitled "Requiescat," Arnold has shown us what we have long anticipated from his other poems, that the great thing to strive after is a calmness of soul.

"Strew on her roses, roses,

And never a spray of yew;

In quiet she reposes;

Ah! would that I did, too!"

As we read the volume of Arnold's verse, we feel the sense of "youth's agitations," and

We instinctively feel the influence of his example and model - Wordsworth - throughout much of his verse. The pantheistic thought, though of a purely Christian type, is seen to be an influence of this singer of nature. To analyze the one poet into his various peculiarities of mind and style would be to present in a large degree the other. There is all the clearness and precision of diction, the exquisite finish, the simplicity and balance, of the one, mirrored forth to a remarkable degree in the verse of the later poet. The seriousness with which Arnold touches everything is on the whole a marked characteristic of his work. Sometimes there seems to be an oppressive solemnity, and especially is this true where the slightness of his theme will not permit of it. This is, however, explicable by his philosophy and rule of life, the key-note of which is found in the single word,- culture. Should we consider Matthew Arnold as the disciple of culture, we have a ready explanation of much which approaches austerity. The poems which are distinctly lyrical, and centered around his affection for Marguerite, are somewhat too coldly austere for fervid utterances of devotion, but there is much of merit. The following verse gives us the true poetic sound adaptation to sense :

"Again I spring to make my choice ;

Again in tones of ire

I hear a god's tremendous voice,

'Be counselled and retire.'

The series of poems entitled "Faded Leaves" have an extreme pathos and dignity, together with chastened emotion and refined intellectuality. I quote only the second of the series, as illustrative of these qualities:

"Each on his own strict line we move,
And some find death ere they find love;
So far apart their lives are thrown

From the twin soul that halves their own.
And sometimes, by still harder fate,
The lovers meet, but meet too late.
Thy heart is mine!

True, true! ah, true!
Then, Love, thy hand!
Ah, no! adieu!"

This does not seem like the lack of emotional expression. It is not the quick and impulsive utterance of an impassioned Romeo, but rather the repressed and melancholy expression of the emotion of the Danish Prince. In a few of Arnold's poems we have vigor and intensity of expression, a notable example of which is found in the concluding lines of "Rugby Chapel,” a poem to the memory of his father, Dr. Thomas Arnold. It has been called a "dirge of Christianity," but faith, hope, and love are better expressions of some glad song of renewed life upon some Easter morn.

"Then, in such hour of need
Of your fainting, dispirited race,
Ye like angels appear,

Radiant with ardor divine.
Beacons of hope, ye appear!
Languor is not in your heart,
Weakness is not in your word,
Weariness not on your brow.

Ye alight in our van!

At your voice
Panic, despair, flee away.

Ye move through the ranks, recall
The stragglers, refresh the outworn,
Praise, re-inspire the brave.
Order, courage, return;
Eyes rekindling and prayers
Follow your steps as you go.
Ye fill up the gaps in our files,
Strengthen the wavering line,
'Stablish, continue our march,
On, to the bound of the waste,
On, to the City of God."

It is from poems like this, witnessing the ideal and spiritual side of things, that we learn of the true greatness of a poet, poems which do not amuse and delight, but stir one with inner earnestness. How truly do such show us how to live, and tell us the dignity and worth of life. Again the moral and spiritual teacher clasps hands with the poet and says with him, "More life and fuller that we want." Ruskin has shown us that true beauty and real utility are somehow inseparably connected. We are learning to gauge poetry as much by its utility as by its beauty, and ultimately we are surprised to find them in hearty co-operation. The poetry of Matthew Arnold is to be judged by this standard, and so judged we must award it an enduring palm. With all his poetry we grasp thought before form. The harmonious union of the thought with beauty of form is a charm which but few possess, and it is this very quality which has made for our poet his few devoted followers. Because he preaches us poetic sermons without the offensive didacticism which would lower them to the level of the commonplace- and preaches them with poetic energy and depth, we are glad to count ourselves as his disciples. Poems like "The Buried Life," "Rugby Chapel," " Balder Dead," "Sohrab and Rustum," "Resignation," “Consolation,” “Thyrsis," and "Dover Beach" bring us to a deeper realization of the real worth of life, and of the moral responsibility of individuals.

The greatest thing in the world is, after all, as the eminent preacher has said, love; and what is this but the thought of Arnold in the following:

"Ah, love, let us be true to one another! for the world which seems

To lie before us, like a land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful, so new,

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

And we are here as on a darkling plain

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight

Where ignorant armies clash by night."

This is not pessimism, but despondency, a natural trait of the soul in moments of despair and failure. How different is the following, from "The Last Word": —

But it is in the "Sonnet Sermons," as they might be appropriately called, that we have Arnold speaking to us of "that power not ourselves which makes for righteousness," together with