Part 16

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.

"On the day of his funeral, I spoke of the dead poet to a live schoolmaster, a teacher of poor children, and he avowed to me, quite simply, that he 'couldn't stand poetry--except a few hymns;' that he had thoroughly disliked it ever since the day, when as a schoolboy, he had to learn by heart portions of _The Lady of the Lake_. I doubt whether this person could have named three pieces of Tennyson's writing. He spoke with the consciousness of being supported by general opinion in his own world.

"Some days before, I was sitting in a public room, where two men, retired shopkeepers, exchanged an occasional word as they read the morning's news. 'A great deal here about Lord Tennyson,' said one. The 'Lord' was significant; I listened anxiously for his companion's reply. 'Ah--yes.' The man moved uneasily, and added at once: 'What do you think about this long-distance ride?' In that room (I frequented it on successive days with this object) not a syllable did I hear regarding Tennyson save the sentence faithfully recorded. This was in the south of England; perhaps it could not have happened in the north.

"As a boy, I at one time went daily to school by train. It happened once that I was alone in the carriage with a commercial traveller; my Horace was open before me, and it elicited a remark from the man of samples, who spoke with the accent of that northern county, and certainly did not belong to the educated class. After a word or two, he opened his bag, and took out an ancient copy, battered, thumbed, pencilled, of--Horatius Flaccus. Without this, he told me, he never travelled. From a bare smattering obtained at school, he had pursued the study of Latin; Horace was dear to him; he indicated favourite odes----

"Everywhere there are the many and the few. What of the multitude in higher spheres? Their leisure is ample; literature lies thick about them. It would be amusing to know how many give one hour a month to the greater poets....

"Believe me, Sir, yours faithfully,

"GEORGE GISSING.

"To Edmund Gosse, Esq."

II

M. MALLARMÉ AND SYMBOLISM

It was with not a little hesitation that I undertook to unravel a corner of the mystic web, woven of sunbeams and electrical threads, in which the poet of _L'Après-Midi d'un Faune_ conceals himself from curious apprehension. There were a dozen chances of my interpretation being wrong, and scarcely one of its being right. My delight therefore may be conceived when I received a most gracious letter from the mage himself; Apollonius was not more surprised when, by a fortunate chance, one of his prophecies came true. I quote from this charming paper of credentials, which proceeds to add some precious details:--

"Votre étude est un miracle de divination.... Les poëtes seuls ont le droit de parler; parce qu'avant coup, ils savent. Il y a, entre toutes, une phrase, où vous écartez tous voiles et désignez la chose avec une clairvoyance de diamant, le voici: 'His aim ... is to use words in such harmonious combination as will suggest to the reader a mood or a condition _which is not mentioned in the text_, but is nevertheless paramount in the poet's mind at the moment of composition.'

"Tout est là. Je fais de la Musique, et appelle ainsi non celle qu'on peut tirer du rapprochement euphonique des mots, cette première condition va de soi; mais l'au delà magiquement produit par certaines dispositions de la parole, où celle-ci ne reste qu'à l'êtat de moyen de communication matérielle avec le lecteur comme les touches du piano. Vraiment entre les lignes et au-dessus du regard cela se passe, en toute pureté, sans l'entremise de cordes à boyaux et de pistons comme à l'orchestre, qui est déjà industriel; mais c'est la même chose que l'orchestre, sauf que littérairement ou silencieusement. Les poëtes de tous les temps n'ont jamais fait autrement et il est aujourd'hui, voilà tout, amusant d'en avoir conscience. Employez Musique dans le sens grec, au fond signifiant Idée au rythme entre les rapports; là, plus divine que dans son expression publique ou Symphonique. Très mal dit, en causant, mais vous saisissez ou plutôt aviez saisi toute au long de cette belle étude qu'il faut garder telle quelle et intacte. Je ne vous chicane que sur l'obscurité: non, cher poëte, excepté par maladresse ou gaucherie je ne suis pas obscur, du moment qu'on me lit pour y chercher ce que j'énonce plus haut, ou la manifestation d'un art qui se sert--mettons incidemment, j'en sais la cause profonde--du langage: et le deviens, bien sûr! si l'on se trompe et croit ouvrir le journal....--Votre

STÉPHANE MALLARMÉ.

_Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. _London and Edinburgh_

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

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LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN.

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Transcriber's note:

One unpaired double quotation mark could not be corrected with confidence.