Consider, for instance, the Order of Merit, one of the highest honours
that the British Crown can confer. At the end of last year it numbered
twenty-one members. Among them were some distinguished foreigners,
Prince Oyama, Prince Yamagata and Admiral Togo; historians, pro-consuls,
four Admirals ... and one novelist. Mr Thomas Hardy. We do not complain
that only Mr Thomas Hardy was chosen, for there is nobody else to set at
his side ... only we do complain that in this high order four admirals
find a place. Are we then so rich in admiralty, so poor in literature?
The same is still truer when we come to the inferior orders, which are
still fairly high, such as the Commandership of the Bath. That ancient
order is almost entirely recruited from amongst soldiers, sailors,
politicians, and civil servants; it does not hold the name of a single
novelist. No novelist is a Privy Councillor, though the position is
honorific and demands no special knowledge. On the Privy Council you
find labour members of Parliament, barristers, coal owners, sellers of
chemicals and other commodities, but no novelists. In all the other
orders it is the same thing; for novelists there are neither
commanderships of the Bath, nor of the Victorian Order, nor of St
Michael and St George, no honours great or minor; no man has ever in
England been offered a peerage _because_ he wrote novels; and yet he has
been offered a peerage because he sold beer. George Meredith was not
offered a peerage, even though some think that his name will live when
those of captains and kings have melted into dust. Our little band of
recognised men, such as Sir James Barrie, Sir Anthony Hope Hawkins, Sir
Rider Haggard, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, small is the toll they have taken
of public recognition; perhaps they should not expect it; perhaps they
have been recognised only because of certain political activities; but
must we really believe that so many lawyers and so few writers are
worthy of an accolade? Is the novelist worthless until he is dead?

This picture may seem too black, but it is that of Great Britain, where
contempt for literature has risen to a peculiar degree. Make an
imaginative effort; see yourself in the drawing-room of some social
leader, where a 'crush' of celebrities is taking place. A flunkey at the
head of the stairs announces the guests. He announces: 'Lord Curzon! ...
Mr Joseph Conrad! ... The Bishop of London!' Who caused a swirl in the
'gilded throng?'