For these are all their own reward,
And leave no good behind;
They try us, oftenest make us hard,
Less modest, pure, and kind.
Alas! yet to the suffering man,
In this his mortal state,
Friends could not give what fortune can—
Health, ease, a heart elate.
But he is now by fortune foil'd
No more; and we retain
The memory of a man unspoil'd,
Sweet, generous, and humane—
With all the fortunate have not,
With gentle voice and brow.
—Alive, we would have changed his lot,
We would not change it now.
When his eldest boy died he wrote to a friend: "He is gone—and all the absorption in one's own occupations which prevented one giving to him more than moments, all one's occasional impatience, all one's taking his ailments as a matter of course, come back upon one as something inconceivable and inhuman. And his mother, who has nothing of all this to reproach herself with, who was everything to him and would have given herself for him, has lost the occupation of sixteen years, and has to begin life over again. The one endless comfort to us is the thought of the sweet, firm, sterling character which the darling child developed in and by all his sufferings and privations. Of that we can think and think."
When his second boy died he said that his "deepest feeling" was best expressed by his own Dejaneira—
But him, on whom, in the prime
Of life, with vigour undimm'd,
With unspent mind, and a soul
Unworn, undebased, undecay'd,
Mournfully grating, the gates
Of the city of death have for ever closed—
Him, I count him well-starr'd.
In teaching the high lesson of Character and Conduct, he dealt sparingly in words, even words of "studied moderation." He taught principally, he taught conspicuously, he taught all his life long, by Example. In regarding that example, as it stands clear across the interspace of fifteen years, we are reminded of Tertullian's doctrine concerning the anima naturaliter Christiana. A more genuinely amiable man never lived. His sunny temper, his quick sympathy, his inexhaustible fun, were natural gifts. But something more than nature must have gone to make his constant unselfishness, his manly endurance of adverse fate, his noble cheerfulness under discouraging circumstances, his buoyancy in breasting difficulties, his unremitting solicitude for the welfare and enjoyment of those who stood nearest to his heart. The secret of his life was that he had taken pains with his own character. While he was still quite young we find him bewailing the "worldly element which enters so largely into his composition," and which threatens to make a gulf between him and the strict, almost Puritanical, associations of his youth. "But," he says in writing to his sister, "as Thomas à Kempis recommended, frequentur tibi violentiam fac ... so I intend not to give myself the rein in following my natural tendency, but to make war against it till it ceases to isolate me from you, and leaves me with the power to discern and adopt the good which you have and I have not."
The result of this self-discipline and self-culture was to produce in him all the virtues which are supposed to be specifically and peculiarly Christian. "Christianity," said Bishop Creighton, "impressed the Roman world by its power of producing men who were strong in self-control, and this must always be its contribution to the world." Arnold's self-control was absolute and unshakable; and to self-control he added the characteristically Christian virtues of surrender, placability, readiness to forgive injuries, perfect freedom from envy, hatred, and malice. He revered the "method and secret of Jesus"; he did all honour to His "mildness and sweet reasonableness." "Christianity," he said, "is Hebraism aiming at self-conquest and rescue from the thrall of vile affections, not by obedience to the letter of a law, but by conformity to the image of a self-sacrificing example. To a world stricken with moral enervation Christianity offered its spectacle of an inspired self-sacrifice; to men who refuse themselves nothing it showed one who refused himself everything." Following this example, Arnold preached "Grace and peace by the annulment of our ordinary self," and what he preached he practised. "Kindness and Pureness," he said, "Charity and Chastity. If any virtues could stand for the whole of Christianity, these might. Let us have them from the mouth of Jesus Christ Himself. 'He that loveth his life shall lose it; a new commandment give I unto you, that ye love one another.' There is charity. 'Blest are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.' There is purity." Charity was indeed the law of Arnold's life. He loved with a passionate and persistent love. He loved his wife with increasing devotion as years went on, when she had become "my sweet Granny," and they both felt that "we are too old for separations." He loved with equal fondness his mother (whom in his brightness, fun, and elasticity he closely resembled), the sisters who so keenly shared his intellectual tastes, his children living and departed. "Dick[34] was a tower of strength." "Lucy[35] is such a perfect companion." "Nelly[36] is the dearest girl in the world." "That little darling[4] we have left behind us at Laleham; and he will soon fade out of people's remembrance, but we shall remember him as long as we live, and he will be one more bond between us, even more perhaps in his death than in his sweet little life." "It was exactly a year since we had driven to Laleham with darling Tommy[38] and the other two boys to see Basil's[37] grave; and now we went to see his grave, poor darling." "I cannot write Budge's[39] name without stopping to look at it in stupefaction at his not being alive."
Outside the circle of his family, his affection was widely bestowed and faithfully maintained. He had the true genius of friendship, and when he signed himself "affectionately" it meant that he really loved. Enmities he had none. If ever he had suffered injuries they were forgiven, forgotten, and buried out of sight. Even in the controversies where his strongest convictions were involved, he steadily abstained from bitterness, violence, and detraction. "Fiery hatred and malice," he said, with perfect truth, "are what I detest, and would always allay or avoid if I could."