“In such a state of things as you describe, Villiers,” he aid, “what a useless unit I am!  A Poet!—­who wants me in this age of Sale and Barter? ...  Is not a producer of poems always considered more or less of a fool nowadays, no matter how much his works may be in fashion for the moment?  I am sure, in spite of the success of ‘Nourhalma,’ that the era of poetry has passed; and, moreover, it certainly seems to have given place to the very baldest and most unbeauteous forms of prose!  As, for instance, if a book is written which contains what is called ‘poetic prose’ the critics are all ready to denounce it as ‘turgid,’ ‘overladen,’ ’strained for effect,’ and ‘hysterical sublime.’  Heine’s Reisebilder, which is one of the most exquisite poems in prose ever given to the world, is nearly incomprehensible to the majority of English minds; so much so, indeed, that the English translators in their rendering of it have not only lost the delicate glamour of its fairy-like fancifulness, but have also blunted all the fine points of its dazzling sarcasm and wealth of imagery.  It is evident enough that the larger mass of people prefer mediocrity to high excellence, else such a number of merely mediocre works of art would not, and could not, be tolerated.  And as long as mediocrity is permitted to hold ground, it is almost an impossibility to do much toward raising the standard of literature.  The few who love the best authors are as a mere drop in the ocean of those who not only choose the worst, but who also fail to see any difference between good and bad.”

“True enough!” assented Villiers,—­“Still the ‘few’ you speak of are worth all the rest.  For the ‘few’ Homer wrote,—­Plato, Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus,—­and the ‘few’ are capable of teaching the majority, if they will only set about it rightly.  But at present they are setting about it wrongly.  All children are taught to read, but no child is guided in what to read.  This is like giving a loaded gun to a boy and saying, ’Shoot away! ...  No matter in which direction you point your aim, . . shoot yourself if you like, and others too,—­anyhow, you’ve got the gun!’ Of course there are a few fellows who have occasionally drawn up a list of books as suitable for everybody’s perusal,—­but then these lists cannot be taken as true criterions, as they all differ from one another as much as church sects.  One would-be instructor in the art of reading says we ought all to study ’Tom Jones’—­now I don’t see the necessity of that!  And, oddly enough, these lists scarcely ever include the name of a poet,—­which is the absurdest mistake ever made.  A liberal education in the highest works of poesy is absolutely necessary to the thinking abilities of man.  But, Alwyn, you need not trouble yourself about what is good for the million and what isn’t, . . whatever you write is sure to be read now—­ you’ve got the ear of the public,—­the ‘fair, large ear’ of the ass’s head which disguises Bottom the Weaver, who frankly says of himself, ’I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch!’”