[Speech of William B. H. Lecky at the annual banquet of the Royal
Academy, London, May 5, 1888. Sir Frederic Leighton, the President of
the Academy, said in introducing him: "In connection with 'Letters,' I
turn to yet another son of that many-gifted sister island [This toast
was coupled with that of "Science," to which John Tyndall was called
upon to respond.] on which all Englishmen must heartily invoke the
blessings of prosperity and of peace restored [cheers], to a man whose
subtle and well-balanced mind has delighted, now in tracing through
the centuries the growth of the spirit of Rationalism, now in
following the history of morals in Europe, through the first eight
centuries of our era, and more lately in illuminating the great page
of English history in the century which precedes our own, Mr. William
Edward Lecky."]
YOUR ROYAL HIGHNESSES, MY LORDS, AND GENTLEMEN: I cannot but
remember that the last time I heard this toast proposed in this room the
task which now devolves upon me was discharged by that true poet and
great critic whose recent loss all England is deploring. In few respects
did Mr. Arnold render a greater service to Literature than by the stress
he always placed upon the importance of its artistic side--upon that
"grand style," as he loved to call it, which the very last words he
uttered in public were employed in extolling. It was not without a
sound, critical instinct that he dwelt on it, for it is, I think, on
this side, that contemporary literature is apt to be weakest. A great
wave of German influence has swept over English literature, and however
admirable may be the German intellect in its industry and its
thoroughness, in its many-sided sympathies, and in its noble love for
truth, it will hardly be claimed for it, even by its greatest admirers,
that it is equally distinguished for its sense of the beauty of form or
for the great art of perspective or proportion. [Cheers.]
Whether it be owing to this cause, or to the reaction from the
brilliantly pictorial literature of Macaulay and his contemporaries, or
to the excessive predominance of the critical spirit, or to some other
more subtle or far-reaching cause, I know not; but I cannot but think
that we find in contemporary literature some want of the freshness, the
simplicity, or the directness of the great literatures of the past.
History is apt to resolve itself into archeology or politics. In poetry
or fiction we find more traces of the mind that dissects and analyzes
than of the mind that embodies and creates. Passion itself assumes the
aspects or affects the subtleties of metaphysics, and much of our modern
literary art bears a strong resemblance to a school of painting which
seems very popular beyond the Channel, in which all definite forms and
outlines seem lost under vague masses of luminous but almost unorganized
color.
And yet, though this be true of a large part of our literature, we have
still great painters among us. It would be idle, it would be, perhaps,
invidious, for me to mention names, many of which will rise unbidden to
your minds; but it is not, I think, out of place to remind you that it
is since the doors of the last Academy exhibition closed that the
illustrious historian [Kinglake] of the Crimean war has completed that
noble historic gallery, hung with battlepieces as glowing and as
animated, with portraits as vivid and as powerful, as any that have
adorned these walls. And if it be said that this great master of
picturesque English was reared in the traditions of a more artistic age,
I would venture to point to a poem which has been but a few weeks in the
world, but which is destined, if I am not much mistaken, to take a more
prominent place in the literature of its time--poem which among many
other beauties contains pictures of the old Greek mythology that are
worthy to compare even with those with which you, Mr. President, have so
often delighted us. I refer to "The City of Dreams," by Robert Buchanan.
["Hear! Hear!"] While such works are produced in England, it cannot, I
think, be said that the artistic spirit in English literature is very
seriously decayed. [Cheers.]