with a gesture of intense fatigue. "By the way, when we get to B in
our Academy dictionary, I will write the article _battledore_. It is
Provençal, I believe; but one must look up Skeat."
"We shall be very old, I am afraid, before we reach letter B," I
remarked, "shall we not?"
"Oh! no," said Mr. Lang, "we shall fire away like fun. All we have to
do is to crib our definitions out of Murray."
"I hardly think that," said Mr. Besant; "we seem to have precious
little to occupy ourselves with, but our dictionary at least you must
leave us."
We talked this over a little, and the general opinion seemed to be that
it would turn out to be more an alphabetical series of monographs on
the history of our language than a dictionary in the ordinary sense.
And who was to have the courage to start it, no one seemed able to
guess.
A general conversation then began, which was of not a little interest
to me. The merits of our two candidates were warmly, but temperately
discussed. Everybody seemed to feel that we ought to have them both
among us; that our company would still be incomplete if one was
elected. Black suggested that some public-spirited Academician should
perform the Happy Despatch, so as to supply the convenience of two
vacancies. Lord Lytton reminded us that we were doing, on a small
scale, what the French Academy itself did for a few years,--from the
election of Guizot to that of Labiche--namely, meeting in private to
wrangle over the merits of the candidates. We laughed, and set to with
greater zeal, I painting Gardiner in rosier colours as Besant advanced
the genius of Hardy.
While this was going on Sir Frederick Leighton joined us, listening
and leaning in one of his Olympian attitudes. "I find," he said at
last, "that I am able to surprise you. You are not aware that there is
a third candidate." "A third candidate?" we all exclaimed. "Yes," he
said; "before the hour was too far advanced yesterday, our secretary
received the due notice from his Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury."
"Ah! you mean for your own Academy," some one said; "as chaplain in the
room of the poor Archbishop of York?" "No," Sir Frederick answered,
smiling, "as a candidate for _our_ Academy, the English Academy." (And,
indeed, I recollected that Leighton was one of our original members. I
cannot quite recall upon what literary grounds, but he is a charming
person, and a great social acquisition.)
There was a pause at this unexpected announcement. "I am sorry," said
Mr. Balfour at last, "that the Archbishop, whom I greatly esteem and
admire, should have laid himself open to this rebuff. We cannot admit
him, and yet how extremely painful to reject him. He has scarcely more
claim to belong to this Academy than I have, and----" At this we all,
very sincerely, murmured our expostulation, and Lord Lytton, leaning
across, said: "My dear Arthur, you are our Haussonville!" "I am afraid
I am more likely," he replied, "to be your Audriffet-Pasquier. But
here I am, and it was none of my seeking. I am, at least, determined
not to use what fortieth-power I have for the election of any but the
best purely literary candidates." There was no direct reply to this,
and presently we all got up and separated to prepare for the election,
each of us manifestly disturbed by this unexpected news.
As I was going out of the Club, I met Jebb, whom I was very glad to
greet. I used to know him well, but I go so seldom to Cambridge in
these days that I can scarcely have seen him since he took his doctor's
degree in letters, which must be seven or eight years ago, when I
came up to see my own boy get his B.A. He was quite unchanged, and as
cordial as ever. The night was so clear that we decided to walk, and,
as we passed into Pall Mall, the moonlight suddenly flooded the street.
"How the nightingales must be singing at Luxilian," I cried.
"And that nest of singing-birds with whom I saw you dining," said Jebb,
"how did they entertain you?"
"The best company in the world," I replied; "and yet----! Perhaps
Academicians talk better in twos and ones than _en masse_. I thought
the dinner might have been more brilliant, and it certainly might have
been more instructive."
"They were afraid of one another, no doubt," said the Professor; "they
were afraid of you. But how could it have been more instructive?"
"I was in hopes that I should hear from all these accomplished men
something definite about the aims of the Academy, its functions in
practical life--what the use of it is to be, in fact."
"Had they no ideas to exchange on that subject? Did they not dwell on
the social advantages it gives to literature? Why, my dear friend,
between ourselves, the election of a new member to an Academy
constituted as ours is, so restricted in numbers, so carefully weeded
of all questionable elements, is in itself the highest distinction ever
yet placed within the reach of English literature. In fact, it is the
Garter."
"But," I pursued, "are we not in danger of thinking too much of the
social matter? Are we not framing a tradition which, if it had existed
for three hundred years, would have excluded Defoe, Bunyan, Keats, and
perhaps Shakespeare himself?"
"Doubtless," Jebb answered, "but we are protected against such folly
by the high standard of our candidates. Hardy, Gardiner--who could be
more unexceptionable? who could more eminently combine the qualities we
seek?"
"You are not aware, then," I said, "that a third candidate is before
us?"
"No! Who?"
"The Archbishop of Canterbury."
"Ah!" he exclaimed, and we walked on together in silence.
At the door of the Academy Jebb left me, "for a moment or two,"
he said, and proceeded up Piccadilly. I ascended the steps of our
new building, and passed into the robing-room. Whom should I meet
there, putting on his green palm-shoots, but Mr. Leslie Stephen. I
was particularly glad to have a moment's interview with him, for I
wanted to tell him of my great discovery, a fifth Nicodemus, Abbot
of Luxilian, in the twelfth century. Extraordinary thing! Of course,
I imagined that he would be delighted about it, although he has not
quite reached N yet, but I can't say that he seemed exhilarated. "Five
successive Nicodemuses," I said, "what do you think of that?" He
murmured something about "all standing naked in the open air." I fancy
he is losing his interest in the mediæval biographies. However, before
I could impress upon him what a "find" it is, Mr. Gladstone came in
with the Bishop of Oxford, and just then Sala called me out to repeat
a story to me which he had just heard at some club. I thought it good
at the time--something about "Manipur" and "many poor"--but I have
forgotten how it went.
Upstairs, in the great reception-room, the company was now rapidly
gathering. You may imagine how interesting I found it. Everywhere knots
of men were forming, less, I felt, to discuss the relative claims of
Hardy and Gardiner than to deplore the descent of the Archbishop into
the lists. The Duke of Argyll, who courteously recognised me, deigned
to refer to this topic of universal interest. "I would have done much,"
he said, "to protect him from the annoyance of this defeat. A prince of
the Anglican Church, whom we all respect and admire! I fear he will not
have more than--than--perhaps _one_ vote. Alas! alas!"
Various little incidents caught my eye. Poor Professor Freeman,
bursting very hastily into the room, bounced violently against Mr.
Froude, who happened to be standing near the door. I don't think Mr.
Freeman can have realised how roughly he struck him, for he did not
turn or stop, but rushed across the room to the Bishop of Oxford, with
whom he was soon in deep consultation about Gardiner, no doubt; I did
not disturb them. Lord Salisbury, with pendant arms, gently majestic,
stood on the hearth-rug talking to an elderly gentleman of pleasing
aspect, in spectacles. I heard some one say something about "the other
uncrowned king of Brentford," but I did not understand the allusion. I
suppose the gentleman was some supporter of the Ministry, but I did not
catch his name.
Lecky was so kind as to present me to Professors Huxley and Tyndall,
neither of whom, I believe, ought to have been out on so fresh a spring
night; neither, I hope to hear this evening, is the worse for such
imprudence. A curious incident now occurred, for as we were chatting,
Huxley suddenly said, in a low voice: "Gladstone has his eye upon you,
Tyndall." The professor flounced about at this in a great agitation,
and replied, so loudly that I feared it would be generally heard--"He
had better not attempt to address me. I should utter six withering
syllables, and then turn my back upon him. Gladstone, indeed, the old
----." But at this moment, to my horror, Mr. Gladstone glided across
the floor with his most courtly and dignified air, and held out his
hand. "Ah! Professor Tyndall, how long it seems since those beautiful
days on the Bel Alp." There was a little bridling and hesitating, and
then Tyndall took the proffered hand. "I was wandering," said the
Grand Old Man, "without a guide, and now I have found one, the best
possible. I am----" "Oh!" broke in the professor, "I thought it would
be so. I am more delighted than----" "Pardon me," interrupted Mr.
Gladstone with an exquisite deprecation, "I am mainly interested at the
moment in the Sirens. I am lost, as I said, without a guide, and I have
found one. Your experiments with the sirens on the North Foreland--
[Greek: hieisai opa kallimon],--"
and then, arm in arm, the amicable and animated pair retired to a
corner of the room.
Impossible to describe to you all the incidents of this delightful
gathering. In one corner the veteran Dr. Martineau was seated,
conversing with Mr. Henry Irving. I was about to join them when I was
attracted by a sharp and elastic step on the stairs, and saw that
Lord Wolseley, entering the room, and glancing quickly round, walked
straight to a group at my left hand, which was formed around Mr. George
Meredith.
"For whom must I vote, Mr. Meredith?" he said. "I place myself in your
hands. Is it to be the Archbishop of Canterbury?"
"Nay," replied Mr. Meredith, smiling, "for the prelate I shake you out
a positive negative. The customary guests at our academic feast--well;
poet, historian, essayist, say novelist or journalist, all welcome
on grounds of merit royally acknowledged and distinguished. But this
portent of a crozier, nodding familiarly to us with its floriated tin
summit, a gilt commodity, definitely hostile to literature--never
in the world. How Europe will boom with cachinnation when it learns
that we have invented the Academy of English Letters for the more
excellent glorification of mere material episcopacy, a radiant excess
of iridescence thrown by poetry upon prelacy, heart's blood of books
shed merely to stain more rosily the _infulæ_ and _vittæ_ of a mitre. I
shall be tempted into some colloquial extravagance if I dwell on this
theme, however; I must chisel on Blackmore yonder for floral wit, and
so will, with permission, float out of your orbit by a bowshot."
Dr. Jowett now made his appearance, in company with Mr. Swinburne;
and they were followed by a gentleman in a rough coat and picturesque
blue shirt, who attracted my attention by this odd costume, and by his
very fine head, with flowing beard and hair. I was told it was the
poet Morris; not at all how I had pictured the author of _The Epic of
Hades_. And finally, to our infinite delight, Lord Tennyson himself
came in, leaning on Jebb's arm, and we felt that our company was
complete.
We clustered at last into our inner council-room, at the door of which
the usher makes us sign our names. What a page last night's will be
for the enjoyment of posterity! We gradually settled into our places;
Lord Tennyson in his presidential chair, Lecky in his post of permanent
secretary; our excellent paid secretary hurrying about with papers,
and explaining to us the routine. It seemed more like a club than ever
at that moment, our charming Academy, with the best of all possible
society. As I sat waiting for business to begin, my thoughts ran
more and more upon the unfortunate candidature of the Archbishop. I
reflected on what the Duke of Argyll had said, the wretchedness of the
_one_ vote. He should, at least, have two, I determined; and I asked
my neighbour, Mr. Frederic Harrison, if he knew what Dr. Benson had
published. "I have an idea," he replied, "that he is the author of a
work entitled _The Cathedral: its Necessary Place in the Life and Work
of an Academy_."
Our proceedings were interrupted for a moment by the entrance of
Cardinal Manning, who desired to be permitted, before the election
began, to add to the names of the candidates that of Mr. W. T. Stead.
At this there was a general murmur, and Mr. Lang muttered: "If it comes
to that, I propose Bridge" (or "Brydges"--I could not catch the name).
The Cardinal continued: "I know I have a seconder for him in my eminent
friend opposite." We all looked across at Archdeacon Farrar, who
objected, with considerable embarrassment: "No, no; when I said that,
I did not understand what the final list of candidates was to be. I
must really decline." The Cardinal then turned to Mr. John Morley, who
shook his head. "The Academy will have more need of Mr. Stead ten years
hence, perhaps, than it has now." And with that the incident terminated.
The moment had at last arrived, and we expected a prolonged session.
By a system of successive ballotings, we have to work on until one
candidate has a positive majority; this may take a long time, and may
even fail to be accomplished. The President rang his bell, and the
names were pronounced by the secretary:
EDWARD WHITE BENSON, Archbishop of Canterbury,
SAMUEL RAWSON GARDINER, and
THOMAS HARDY.
As soon as he had recorded his vote, our venerable President left us;
the remainder of the company awaited the result with eager curiosity.
The general opinion seemed to be that the votes for Gardiner and Hardy
would prove pretty equal, and I began to feel a little qualm at having
thrown mine away. But when Mr. Gladstone, taking the President's chair,
rang his bell, and announced the result of the voting, it is not too
much to say that we were stupefied. The votes were thus divided:
The Archbishop of Canterbury 19
Gardiner 8
Hardy 7
Blank votes 3
There was, accordingly, no need for a second ballot, since the
Archbishop had secured a positive majority of the votes. I felt a
little uncomfortable when I reflected that my vote, if loyally given
to Gardiner, would have necessitated a reopening of the matter. Never
mind. Better as it is. The election is a very good one, from a social
point of view particularly.
The company dispersed rather hurriedly. On the stairs, where Mr. Arthur
Balfour was offering his arm to Lord Selborne, I heard the latter say,
"We may congratulate ourselves on a most excellent evening's work, may
we not?" Mr. Balfour shook his head, but I did not catch his reply; he
seemed to have lost something of his previous good spirits.
This morning the daily papers are in raptures, the Gladstonians as much
as the Unionists. A great honour, they all say, done to the profession
of literature. "Quite a social triumph," the _Morning Post_ remarks;
"a bloodless victory in the campaign of letters"--rather happy, is it
not? But one of those young men of the _National Observer_, who was
waiting for me outside the Academy last night, and kindly volunteered
to see me home to the hotel--where he was even good enough to partake
of refreshment--was rather severe. "Not a single _writer_ in the d----d
gang of you," he said. A little coarse, I thought; and not positively
final, as criticism.
I am,
Yours very faithfully,
---------------------
_1891._
FOOTNOTE:
[2] MY DEAR SIR,--What in the Devil's name should I do at your
assemblage of notorieties? I neither care nor wish to care whom you
elect. The only _Gardiner_ I ever heard of was Henry's Bloody Bishop.
If "Kiss me _Hardy_" came before us, it would be worth while for the
only true Tory left in England to vote for him; but he has been with
God this good half century. My £100 a year as Academician--recoverable,
they tell me, in case of lapsed payment, from Her Majesty herself--I
spend in perfecting my collection of the palates of molluscs, who keep
their inward economy as clean as the deck of a ship of the line with
stratagems beautiful and manifold exceedingly. Few of your Academicians
show an apparatus half so handsome when they open their mouths. How
unlike am I, by the way, in my retirement, from Bismarck across
the waters, who squeaks like a puppy-dog on his road to the final
parliamentary sausage-making machine of these poor times. Would it not
be well for your English Academy, instead of these election follies,
to bestir itself with a copy of _The Crown of Wild Olive_ for his
heart's betterment? But keep your Lydian modes; I hold my Dorian.--Ever
faithfully yours, JOHN RUSKIN.
APPENDICES
I
TENNYSON--AND AFTER?
When this essay first appeared in _The New Review_, the scepticism it
expressed with regard to the universal appreciation of the poet was
severely censured in one or two newspapers. On the other hand, the
accomplished author of _Thyrza_ and _New Grub Street_ obliged me with
a letter of very great interest, which fully confirmed my doubts. Mr.
Gissing has kindly permitted me to print his letter here. His wide
experience among the poor makes his opinion on this matter one which
cannot lightly be passed by:
"_Nov. 20, 1892._
"SIR,--Will you pardon me if I venture to say with what
satisfaction I have read your remarks about Tennyson in _The New
Review_, which has only just come into my hands?
"The popular mind is my study, and I know that Tennyson's song
no more reached it than it reached the young-eyed cherubim. Nor
does _any_ song reach the populace, rich and poor, unless, as you
suggest, it be such as appears in _The Referee_.
"After fifteen years' observation of the poorer classes of
English folk, chiefly in London and the south, I am pretty well
assured that, whatever civilising agencies may be at work among
the democracy, poetry is not one of them. Reading, of one kind
or another, is universal; study, serious and progressive, is no
longer confined to the ranks that enjoy a liberal education; but
the populace, the industrial and trading masses, not merely remain
without interest in poetry, but do not so much as understand what
the term poetry means. In other intellectual points, the grades of
unlettered life are numerous; as regards appreciation of verse,
the People are one. From the work-girl, with her penny novelette,
to the artisan who has collected a little library, the natural
inclination of all who represent their class is to neglect verse
as something exotic, something without appeal to their instincts.
They either do not read it at all--the common case--or (with
an exception to be noticed) they take it as a quaint variety
of prose, which custom has consecrated to religion, to the
affections, and to certain phases of facetiousness.
"In London, through all orders of society below the liberally
educated, it is a most exceptional thing to meet with a person who
seeks for verse as verse; who recognises the name of any greater
poet not hackneyed in the newspapers, or who even distantly
apprehends the nature of the poet's art. In the north of England,
where more native melody is found, self-taught readers of poetry
are, I believe, not so rare; but they must still be greatly the
exception. As to the influence of board-schools, one cannot doubt
that the younger generation are even less inclined to a taste for
poetry than their fathers. Some elderly people, in Sunday languor,
take up a book of verse with which they have been familiar since
early days (Mrs. Hemans, Eliza Cook, Montgomery, Longfellow);
whereas their children cannot endure printed matter cut into
rhythmic lengths, unless the oddity solicit them in the columns of
a paper specially addressed to their intelligence.
"At the instigation of those zealous persons who impress upon
shopkeepers, clerks and artisans, the duty of 'self-culture
in leisure hours,' there undoubtedly goes on some systematic
reading of verse--the exceptional case to which I alluded. It
is undertaken in a resolute spirit by pallid men, who study the
poet just as they study the historian, the economist, the master
of physical science, and their pathetic endeavour is directed by
that species of criticism which demands--exclusively--from poetry
its 'message for our time.' Hence, no doubt, the conviction of
many who go down to the great democratic deep that multitudes
are hungering for the poet's word. Here, as in other kindred
matters, the hope of such enthusiasts arises from imperfect
understanding. Not in lecture-hall and classroom can the mind of
the people be discovered. Optimism has made a fancy picture of
the representative working-man, ludicrous beyond expression to
those who know him in his habitat; and the supremely ludicrous
touch is that which attributes to him a capacity for enjoying pure
literature.
"I have in mind a typical artisan family, occupying a house
to themselves, the younger members grown up and, in their own
opinion, very far above those who are called 'the poor.' They
possess perhaps a dozen volumes: a novel or two, some bound
magazines, a few musty works of popular instruction or amusement;
all casually acquired and held in no value. Of these people I am
able confidently to assert (as the result of specific inquiry)
that they have in their abode no book of verse--that they never
read verse when they can avoid it--that among their intimates
is no person who reads or wishes to read verse--that they never
knew of any one buying a book of verse--and that not one of them,
from childhood upwards, ever heard a piece of verse read aloud
at the fireside. In this respect, as in many others, the family
beyond doubt is typical. They stand between the brutal and the
intelligent of working-folk. There must be an overwhelming number
of such households through the land, representing a vast populace
absolutely irresponsive to the word of any poet.
"The custodian of a Free Library in a southern city informs me
that 'hardly once in a month' does a volume of verse pass over
his counter; that the exceptional applicant (seeking Byron or
Longfellow) is generally 'the wife of a tradesman'; and that an
offer of verse to man or woman who comes simply for 'a book' is
invariably rejected; 'they won't even look at it.'
"What else could one have anticipated? To love poetry is a boon of
nature, most sparingly bestowed; appreciation of the poet's art is
an outcome of studious leisure. Even an honest liking for verse,
without discernment, depends upon complex conditions of birth,
breeding, education. No one seeks to disparage the laborious
masses on the ground of their incapacity for delights necessarily
the privilege of a few. It was needless folly to pretend that,
because one or two of Tennyson's poems became largely known
through popular recitation, therefore Tennyson was dear to the
heart of the people, a subject of their pride whilst he lived, of
their mourning when he departed. My point is that _no_ poet holds
this place in the esteem of the English lower orders.
"Tennyson? The mere price of his works is prohibitive to people
who think a shilling a very large outlay for printed paper. Half
a dozen of his poems at most would obtain a hearing from the
average uneducated person. We know very well the kind of home in
which Tennyson is really beloved for the sake of perhaps half his
work--and that not the better half. Between such households and
the best discoverable in the world of which I speak, lies a chasm
of utter severance. In default of other tests, Tennyson might be
used as a touch-stone to distinguish the last of gentle-folk from
the first of the unprivileged.