AthenÆum Club, Pall Mall, S.W.

To Robert Louis Stevenson, R.E.A., Samoa

Dear Mr. Stevenson,—Last night I think that even you must have regretted being a beachcomber. Even the society of your friend Ori-a-Ori and the delights of kava and bread-fruit can hardly make up to you for what you lost in Piccadilly. It was the first occasion, as you are aware, upon which we have been called upon to fill up a vacancy in the Forty. You know, long before this letter reaches you, that we have already lost one of our original members. Poor Kinglake! I thought at the time that it was a barren honour, but it was one which his fame imperatively demanded. I can't say I knew him: a single introduction, a few gracious words in a low voice, a grave and sad presence—that is all I retain of him personally. I shall know more when our new Academician has to deliver the eulogium on his predecessor. What an intellectual treat it will be!

We had a splendid gathering. Do you recollect that when the papers discussed us, before our foundation, one thing they said was that there never would be a decent attendance? I must confess our business meetings have been rather sparsely filled up. Besant is invariably there, Lecky generally, a few others. There has always been a quorum—not much more. But between you and me and those other palms—the feathery palms of your cabin—there has not been much business to transact; not much more than might have been left to assiduous Mr. Robinson, our paid secretary. But last night the clan was all but complete. There were thirty-seven of us, nobody missing but Mr. Ruskin and yourself. Ruskin, by the way, wrote a letter to be read at the meeting, and then sent on to the Pall Mall Gazette—so diverting! I must cut it out and enclose it. But his style, if this is to be taken as an example, is not quite what it was.[2]

Well, I am still so excited that I hardly know where to begin. To me, a real country bumpkin, the whole thing was such an occasion! Such a social occasion! I must begin from the beginning. I came all the way up from Luxilian, my green uniform, with the golden palm-shoots embroidered on it, safely packed in my portmanteau under my dress-clothes. To my great annoyance the children had been wearing it in Christmas charades. My dear wife, ay me, has so little firmness of character. By-the-by, I hope you wear yours on official occasions in Samoa? The whole costume, I should fancy, must be quite in a Polynesian taste. I was more "up" in the candidates and their characteristics than you would expect. Ah! I know you think me rather a Philistine—but can an Academician be a Philistine? That is a question that might be started when next the big gooseberry season begins. I was "up" in the candidates because, as good luck would have it, Sala had been spending a week with me in the country. Delightful companion, but scarcely fitted for rural pleasures. He mentioned such a great number of eminent literary persons whom I had never heard of—mostly rather occasional writers, I gathered. He has an extraordinarily wide circle, I find: it makes me feel quite the Country Mouse. He did not seem to know much about Gardiner, it is true, but then he could tell me all that Hardy had written—or pretty nearly all; and, of course, as you know, Gardiner is my own hobby.

The moment I got to Paddington I foolishly began looking hither and thither for fellow-"immortals." Rather absurd, but not so absurd as you might suppose, for there, daintily stepping out of a first-class carriage, whom should I see but Max MÜller. I scarcely know him, and should not have ventured to address him, but he called out: "Ah! my dear friend, we come, I suspect, on the same interesting, the same patriotic errand!" I had felt a few qualms of conscience about my own excitement in the election; we are so quiet at Luxilian that we can scarcely measure the relative importance of events. But Max MÜller completely reassured me. It was delightful to me to see how seriously he regarded the event. "Europe," he said, "is not inattentive to such a voice as the unanimity of the English Academy may—may wield." I could not help smiling at the last word, and reflecting how carelessly the most careful of us professional writers expresses himself in conversation. But his enthusiasm was very beautiful, and I found myself more elevated than ever. "It is permitted to us," he went on, "to whisper among ourselves what the world must not hear—the unthinking world—that the social status of English Academician adds not a little dignity to literature. One hopes that, whoever may be added to our number to-night, the social——eh?" I had formulated just the same feeling myself. "Only in so far," he went on, "as is strictly consistent with the interests of literature and scholarship—of course? Good-bye!" and he left me with an impression that he wanted to vote for both candidates.

There was a little shopping I had to do in Regent Street, after I had left my costume at the Academy, and I called in at Mudie's for a moment on my way to the British Museum. To give you an idea of the mental disturbance I was suffering from, I asked the very polite young man at the counter for my own Mayors of Woodshire—you know, my seventeenth-century book—instead of The Mayor of Casterbridge, which my wife wanted to read. I did not realise my mistake till I saw the imprint of the Clarendon Press. At last I got to the manuscript room, made my references, and found that our early dinner hour was approaching. I walked westward down Oxford Street, enjoying the animation and colour of the lovely evening, and then, suddenly, realising what the hour was, turned and took a hansom to the AthenÆum.

Who should meet me in the vestibule but Seeley? Less and less often do I find my way to Cambridge, and I hesitated about addressing him, although I used to know him so well. He was buried in a reverie, and slowly moving to the steps. I suppose I involuntarily slackened my speed also, and he looked up. He was most cordial, and almost immediately began to talk to me about those notes on the commercial relations of the Woodshire ports with Poland which I printed in the English Historical two (or perhaps three) years ago. I daresay you never heard of them. I promised to send him some transcripts I have since made of the harbour laws of Luxilian itself—most important. I longed to ask Seeley whether we might be sure of his support for Gardiner, but I hardly liked to do so, he seemed so much more absorbed in the past. I took for granted it was all right, and when we parted, as he left the Club, he said, "We meet later on this evening, I suppose?" and that was his only reference to the election.

I am hardly at home yet at the AthenÆum, and I was therefore delighted to put myself under Lecky's wing. I soon saw that quite a muster of Academicians was preparing to dine, for when we entered the Coffee Room we found Mr. Walter Besant already seated, and before we could join him Mr. Black and Mr. Herbert Spencer came in together and approached us. We had two small tables placed together, and just as we were sitting down, Lord Lytton, who was so extremely kind to me in Paris last autumn when I left my umbrella in the Eiffel Tower, made his appearance. We all seemed studiously to make no reference, at first, to the great event of the day, while Mr. Spencer diverted us with several anecdotes which he had just brought from a family in the country—not at all, of course, of a puerile description, but throwing a singular light upon the development of infant mind. After this the conversation flagged a little. I suppose we were all thinking of the same thing. I was quite relieved when a remark of Lecky's introduced the general topic.

Our discussion began by Lord Lytton's giving us some very interesting particulars of the election of Pierre Loti (M. Viaud) into the French Academy last week, and of the social impression produced by these contests. I had no idea of the pushing, the intriguing, the unworthy anxiety which are shown by some people in Paris who wish to be of the Forty. Lord Lytton says that there is a story by M. Daudet which, although it is petulant and exaggerated, gives a very graphic picture of the seamy side of the French Academy. I must read this novel, for I feel that we, as a new body destined to wield a vast influence in this country, ought to be forewarned. I ventured to say that I did not think that English people, with our honest and wholesome traditions, and the blessings of a Protestant religion, would be in any danger of falling into these excesses. Nobody responded to this; I am afraid the London writers are dreadfully cynical, and Black remarked that we six, at all events, were poachers turned inside out. They laughed at this, and I was quite glad when the subject was changed.

Lord Lytton asked Mr. Besant whether he was still as eager as ever about his Club of Authors, or whether he considered that the English Academy covered the ground. He replied that he had wholly relinquished that project for the present. His only wish had been to advocate union among authors, on a basis of mutual esteem and encouragement, and he thought that the Academy would be quite enough to do that, if it secured for itself the building which is now being talked about, as a central point for consultation on all matters connected with the literary life and profession. But this notion did not seem to command itself to Mr. Spencer, who said that it seemed to him that the Forty were precisely those whom success or the indulgence of the public had raised above the need or the desire of consultation. "I am very glad to have the pleasure of playing a game of billiards with you, Mr. Besant, but why should I consult you about my writings? I conceive that the duty of our Academy is solely to insist on a public recognition of the dignity of literature, and that if we go a step beyond that aim, we prepare nothing but snares for our feet."

"Whom, then, do you propose," continued Lecky to Besant, "to summon to your consultations?"

"Surely," was the reply, "any respectable authors."

"Outsiders, then," said Mr. Spencer, "a few possible and a multitude of impossible candidates?"

"Female writers as well as male?" asked Black; "are we to have the literary Daphne at our conversaziones—

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 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—

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:

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," 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.

[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.