and the popular writers by having read them. I am convinced that not
one man in ten who reads, reads poetry--at any rate, knowingly. I
am convinced, further, that not one man in ten who goes so far as
knowingly to _buy_ poetry ever reads it. You will find everywhere men
who read very widely in prose, but who will say quite callously,
"No, I never read poetry." If the sales of modern poetry, distinctly
labelled as such, were to cease entirely to-morrow not a publisher
would fail; scarcely a publisher would be affected; and not a poet
would die--for I do not believe that a single modern English poet
is living to-day on the current proceeds of his verse. For a country
which possesses the greatest poetical literature in the world this
condition of affairs is at least odd. What makes it odder is that,
occasionally, very occasionally, the average lettered man will have
a fit of idolatry for a fine poet, buying his books in tens of
thousands, and bestowing upon him immense riches. As with Tennyson.
And what makes it odder still is that, after all, the average lettered
man does not truly dislike poetry; he only dislikes it when it takes
a certain form. He will read poetry and enjoy it, provided he is not
aware that it is poetry. Poetry can exist authentically either in
prose or in verse. Give him poetry concealed in prose and there is a
chance that, taken off his guard, he will appreciate it. But show him
a page of verse, and he will be ready to send for a policeman. The
reason of this is that, though poetry may come to pass either in prose
or in verse, it does actually happen far more frequently in verse than
in prose; nearly all the very greatest poetry is in verse; verse is
identified with the very greatest poetry, and the very greatest poetry
can only be understood and savoured by people who have put themselves
through a considerable mental discipline. To others it is an
exasperating weariness. Hence chiefly the fearful prejudice of the
average lettered man against the mere form of verse.