Intellectual Tete a tete

Well, well, well, Dante Z. Rossetti got another letter accepted for publication!

It's my opinion that this "potentate of the poisoned pen" be put down like some syphilitic cur. Even so, I've no inclination to enter into his long-standing feud with A.T. Tennyson. The vendetta, instigated by Tennyson, represents the upshot of a contretemps over some scarlet woman, and it mars the pages of many a periodical to this day. The screes of venom and vituperation would amount to a sizeable volume now, and we are in little need of a post script.

None the less, Rossetti squeezes it in, amongst his myriad allegations, one which needs immediate qualification. It concerns the perennial wrangle over the English genius (one of Tennyson's less attractive idees fixees) and whether it is Tennyson of Mr Bulwer Lytton who wears this singular mantle. As we know, Mr Rossetti champions Mr Lytton with embarassing avidity. Lytton's position needle elucidation in order to present a proper picture.

Now, I was lunching with Lytton on a Friday. The argument snuck in, surreptitiously (Conversational gambits are not my forte, and I introduced it this: 'You're getting a lot of exposure again'). Lytton, who never wanted any part of the arid altercation, said 'yes', a statement masking the real talent for words which the ex-Corpus Christian possesses.

However, over the lobster bisque (mine was a pate a froid, which requires less toilet training) Lytton ranged out.

'I used to sympathise with Trade Unions', said the sartorially resplendent ex-Magdllen man.

'It takes more than that', said I, precipitating a globule of murky saliva.

I suppose not', said Lytton, balding and queasy.

When the former Balliol. Blue got into the Boeuf Belmont (mine was a car nap a I'orange) no resolution of the dilemma was in sight.

'You were wasted in Arabia', I preferred.

'Maybe', growled Lytton, 74 and stout from certain angles.

After the crepes aux Marrons Glaces (the recipe for which is in Robert Carrier), we went round to Bertrand Russell's, sommulent and sage as ever, he was in the middle of a peach flan (Betty Crocker). Bidding us welcome with a smile that bisected the monumental brow, the man who brought the Vienna Circle to England (Margucritc Patton) looked well. We sat down and essayed the philosopher with the problem.

When a copy of your last issue was produced - for the purposes of material substantiation - Russel was immediately arrested by Peter Ivory's article on abortion. It amused the old sage. On completion of the essay, Russell quivered with mirth and quipped.

Tell you what, the OED's not watching current language use.

'Abuse', said Lytton, squirming and looking younger.

'Whatever' said Russell, producing the incision which made positivism a joke.

I mentioned that the article was beyond me. This is true.

'It is not beyond a philosopher' interjected Lytton, 48 and alive.

'Au contraire', countered Russell (lapsing into his other tongue). Philosophers and for that matter women, would never get to grips with it.'

'Why not?' I quizzed soberly.

'Because philosophically it's bullshit when it's not jargon: abortion-wise it's meaningless when it's not irrelevant'.

'What do you mean?' cried Lytton, hitting his stride and 37.

'Emotion is not a matter of words, let alone verbal argument,' said Russell.

'Shit', said Lytton by way of exclamation rather than rejoinder. And with those words. Lytton's involvement in the English Genius Argument was over. Lytton is no pretender to the crown.

This puts the record straight. But I must, as Tennyson and Rossetti, disassociate myself from a number of things: namely, ethical rumination, piano-johnnies, the objective correlate and, come to that, T.S. Eliot and the 'New Criticism'!