Again, sir, when we look for those who have been most distinguished as men of letters, in the usual sense of the word, where do we find them?  The famous lawyer is found in his chambers, the famous artist is found in his studio.  Our foremost representatives we do not find always in their libraries; we find them, in the first place, in the service of their country. ("Hear!  Hear!”) Owen Meredith is Viceroy of India, and all England has applauded the judgment that selected and sent him there.  The right honorable gentleman (Mr. Gladstone) who three years ago was conducting the administration of this country with such brilliant success was first generally known to his countrymen as a remarkable writer.  During forty years of arduous service he never wholly deserted his original calling.  He is employing an interval of temporary retirement to become the interpreter of Homer to the English race, or to break a lance with the most renowned theologians in defense of spiritual liberty.

A great author, whose life we have been all lately reading with delight, contemplates the year 3000 as a period at which his works may still be studied.  If any man might be led reasonably to form such an anticipation for himself by the admiration of his contemporaries, Lord Macaulay may be acquitted of vanity.  The year 3000 is far away, much will happen between now and then; all that we can say with certainty of the year 3000 is that it will be something extremely different from what any one expects.  I will not predict that men will then be reading Lord Macaulay’s “History of England.”  I will not predict that they will then be reading “Lothair.”  But this I will say, that if any statesman of the age of Augustus or the Antonines had left us a picture of patrician society at Rome, drawn with the same skill, and with the same delicate irony with which Mr. Disraeli has described a part of English society in “Lothair,” no relic of antiquity would now be devoured with more avidity and interest.  Thus, sir, we are an anomalous body, with very ill-defined limits.  But, such as we are, we are heartily obliged to you for wishing us well, and I give you our most sincere thanks.

LITERATURE AND POLITICS

BY JOHN MORLEY

Mr. President, Your Royal Highness, My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen:—­I feel that I am more unworthy now than I was eight years ago to figure as the representative of literature before this brilliant gathering of all the most important intellectual and social interests of our time.  I have not yet been able like the Prime Minister, to go round this exhibition and see the works of art that glorify your walls; but I am led by him to expect that I shall see the pictures of Liberal leaders, including M. Rochefort.  I am not sure whether M. Rochefort will figure as a man of letters or as a Liberal leader, but I can understand that his portrait would attract the Prime Minister