"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.