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_."