One day Professor Tyrrell of Trinity College, Dublin, happened to be in my office, while I was setting forth the difference between men of letters in France and England as exemplified by this conduct.  In France among authors there is a recognised “esprit de corps,” which constrains them to hold together.  For instance when Zola was threatened with prosecution for “Nana,” a dozen men like Cherbuliez, Feuillet, Dumas fils, who hated his work and regarded it as sensational, tawdry, immoral even, took up the cudgels for him at once; declared that the police were not judges of art, and should not interfere with a serious workman.  All these Frenchmen, though they disliked Zola’s work, and believed that his popularity was won by a low appeal, still admitted that he was a force in letters, and stood by him resolutely in spite of their own prepossessions and prejudices.  But in England the feeling is altogether more selfish.  Everyone consults his own sordid self-interest and is rather glad to see a social favourite come to grief:  not a hand is stretched out to help him.  Suddenly, Tyrrell broke in upon my exposition: 

“I don’t know whether my name is of any good to you,” he said, “but I agree with all you have said, and my name might be classed with that of Churton Collins, though, of course, I’ve no right to speak for literature,” and without more ado he signed the petition, adding, “Regius Professor of Greek at Trinity College, Dublin.”

“When you next see Oscar,” he continued, “please tell him that my wife and I asked after him.  We both hold him in grateful memory as a most brilliant talker and writer, and a charming fellow to boot.  Confusion take all their English Puritanism.”

Merely living in Ireland tends to make an Englishman more humane; but one name was not enough, and Tyrrell’s was the only one I could get.  In despair, and knowing that George Wyndham had had a great liking for Oscar, and admiration for his high talent, I asked him to lunch at the Savoy; laid the matter before him, and begged him to give me his name.  He refused, and in face of my astonishment he excused himself by saying that, as soon as the rumour had reached him of Oscar’s intimacy with Bosie Douglas, he had asked Oscar whether there was any truth in the scandalous report.

“You see,” he went on, “Bosie is by way of being a relation of mine, and so I had the right to ask.  Oscar gave me his word of honour that there was nothing but friendship between them.  He lied to me, and that I can never forgive.”

A politician unable to forgive a lie—­surely one can hear the mocking laughter of the gods!  I could say nothing to such paltry affected nonsense.  Politician-like Wyndham showed me how the wind of popular feeling blew, and I recognised that my efforts were in vain.

There is no fellow-feeling among English men of letters; in fact they hold together less than any other class and, by himself, none of them wished to help a wounded member of the flock.  I had to tell Sir Ruggles Brise that I had failed.