FOOTNOTE:

With legs toss'd high on her sophee she sits,Vouchsafing audience to contending wits?

With legs toss'd high on her sophee she sits,

Vouchsafing audience to contending wits?

How do you like that prospect, Lecky?"

"But poorly, I must confess. We have tiresome institutions enough in London without adding to them a sort of Ptolemaic Mouseion, for us to strut about on the steps of, in our palm-costume, attended by dialectical ladies and troops of intriguing pupils.Though that, I am sure," he added courteously, "is the last thing our friend Besant desires, yet I conceive it would tend to be the result of such consultation."

"What then," said the novelist, "is to be the practical service of the English Academy to life and literature?"

At this we all put on a grave and yet animated expression, for certainly, to each of us, this was a very important consideration.

"Putting on one side," began Mr. Spencer, "the social advantage, the unquestionable dignity and importance given to individual literary accomplishment at a time when the purer parts of writing—I mean no disrespect to you novelists—are greatly neglected in the general hurly-burly; putting on one side this function of the English Academy, there remains, of course——"

But, at this precise moment, when I was literally hanging on the lips of our eminent philosopher, the door opened with a considerable noise of gaiety, and Mr. Arthur Balfour entered, in company with a gentleman, who was introduced to me presently as Mr. Andrew Lang.

"Two more Academicians, and this time neither novelists nor philosophers," said Black.

They sat down close to us, so that the conversation was still general.

"We were discussing the Academy," said Lord Lytton. "And we," replied Mr. Balfour, "were comparing notes about rackets. Lang tells me he has found a complete description of the game in one of the Icelandic sagas."

"Played with a shuttlecock," said Mr. Lang, throwing himself back with a gesture of intense fatigue. "By the way, when we get to B in our Academy dictionary, I will write the articlebattledore. 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 theordinary 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 hisGrace 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 forourAcademy, 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 forthe 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 thanen 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—perhapsonevote. 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 ofpleasing 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—

ἱεἱσαι ὁπα κἁλλιμον,—"

[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. Thecustomary 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 theinfulæandvittæof 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 ofThe Epic of Hades. And finally, to our infinite delight, Lord Tennyson himself came in, leaningon 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 theonevote. 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 entitledThe 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 addto 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:

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:

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," theMorning Postremarks; "a bloodless victory in the campaign of letters"—rather happy, is it not? But one of those young men of theNational 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 singlewriterin 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 onlyGardinerI ever heard of was Henry's Bloody Bishop. If "Kiss meHardy" 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 ofThe Crown of Wild Olivefor his heart's betterment? But keep your Lydian modes; I hold my Dorian.—Ever faithfully yours,John Ruskin.

[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 onlyGardinerI ever heard of was Henry's Bloody Bishop. If "Kiss meHardy" 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 ofThe Crown of Wild Olivefor his heart's betterment? But keep your Lydian modes; I hold my Dorian.—Ever faithfully yours,John Ruskin.

TENNYSON—AND AFTER?

When this essay first appeared inThe 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 ofThyrzaandNew Grub Streetobliged 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 inThe 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 doesanysong reachthe populace, rich and poor, unless, as you suggest, it be such as appears inThe 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 distantlyapprehends 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 theexceptional 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 thatnopoet 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 ofutter 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 ofThe 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, whospoke 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."

"Nov. 20, 1892.

"Sir,—Will you pardon me if I venture to say with what satisfaction I have read your remarks about Tennyson inThe 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 doesanysong reachthe populace, rich and poor, unless, as you suggest, it be such as appears inThe 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 distantlyapprehends 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 theexceptional 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 thatnopoet 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 ofutter 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 ofThe 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, whospoke 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."

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 ofL'Après-Midi d'un Fauneconceals 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 conditionwhich 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 byBallantyne, Hanson and Co.London and Edinburgh

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Back to Index Next