Chartered prose

In the making of the modern mind Quennell Desmond Wickham, ninety seventh Archbishop of Working, was important. In Wickham we saw the awakening of the 'new sensibility', and his late lamented passing is only made palatable by the thought the 'new sensibility did not die with him. Although there is a greater immortality, Quennell Desmond's enduring example is enough to say he is one of those of whom we state non norunt haec monumenta mori.

Of the new sensibility I have spoken elsewhere, and this is not the place to reiterate what others, with reason possibly, adjudge to be my prejudices. But it pertains to what follows, and it would serve us well to remember its place in our presently exacting critical procedures.

By opening essays like this for the next trecade, I expect the reading public to recognise me as in charge' of English literature in the meantime there is Mr Saintsbury.

The much we do not accept. And Saintsbury's propensity for exposing his interest in contraceptive procedures, ancient and modern, we do not accept. Baltimore, even, dislikes it, which is evidence of general approbation enough, and to which I cannot add.

But what we must accept is that Saintsbury is of an older and (thank god, as my living depends upon it) outmoded school of literary criticism. It is a school with which the one I'm presently instigating is at variance. Not only in degree but also in kind does my improvement differ from Saintsbury's original. His was a critical coterie which employed proprietous and improprietous procedures alike, probably oblivious to the different Some of this circle were aware of circumspection and decency—Jones, who gave us a Shakespeare in the image of Shakespearean dirty jokes, and Lewis, who gave us an Elizabeth G. Browning in the image of Gargantua and Christopher Columbus. But recognise these virtues as they did, these individuals dispensed with them on the whiff of a quick buck. Others, like Saintsbury, were not equipped with the tools of thought to distinguish decency from indecency and never displayed any practice of ethical consideration. So we cannot blame Saintsbury—even in writings so vile as the letter you published last week, on a man who is, if anything, more repulsive. The subject should not subjugate the style, and we won't let it; for Saintsbury, I am sorry, we must make an exception.

However, this was not my only reason for writing; for excepting the old school will not last forever. It will go away, and I will re-instate the metaphysical poets and change my mind about Milton every twenty years. Also, my vacillations over the relative superiority of either Shakespeare or Dante's right to be number one of all time will raise some eyebrows. My dissertations on Anglican prelates as venerable as the stones of Avebury will be forgotten as soon as their subjects. My speculations on the future of eduction will not get the attention they deserve. And even with so much before me, I expect everyone to keep out of my bed linen. Yes!

Now, while I am opining before 6000 arbiters of literary reputation I may as well send you my latest poem. It is not my best verse—it needs a little sinew—but some phrases will get praises. You may care to print it.