"At the instigation of those zealous persons who impress upon shopkeepers, clerks and artisans, the duty of 'self-culture in leisure hours,' there undoubtedly goes on some systematic reading of verse--the exceptional case to which I alluded. It is undertaken in a resolute spirit by pallid men, who study the poet just as they study the historian, the economist, the master of physical science, and their pathetic endeavour is directed by that species of criticism which demands--exclusively--from poetry its 'message for our time.' Hence, no doubt, the conviction of many who go down to the great democratic deep that multitudes are hungering for the poet's word. Here, as in other kindred matters, the hope of such enthusiasts arises from imperfect understanding. Not in lecture-hall and classroom can the mind of the people be discovered. Optimism has made a fancy picture of the representative working-man, ludicrous beyond expression to those who know him in his habitat; and the supremely ludicrous touch is that which attributes to him a capacity for enjoying pure literature. "I have in mind a typical artisan family, occupying a house to themselves, the younger members grown up and, in their own opinion, very far above those who are called 'the poor.' They possess perhaps a dozen volumes: a novel or two, some bound magazines, a few musty works of popular instruction or amusement; all casually acquired and held in no value. Of these people I am able confidently to assert (as the result of specific inquiry) that they have in their abode no book of verse--that they never read verse when they can avoid it--that among their intimates is no person who reads or wishes to read verse--that they never knew of any one buying a book of verse--and that not one of them, from childhood upwards, ever heard a piece of verse read aloud at the fireside. In this respect, as in many others, the family beyond doubt is typical. They stand between the brutal and the intelligent of working-folk. There must be an overwhelming number of such households through the land, representing a vast populace absolutely irresponsive to the word of any poet. "The custodian of a Free Library in a southern city informs me that 'hardly once in a month' does a volume of verse pass over his counter; that the exceptional applicant (seeking Byron or Longfellow) is generally 'the wife of a tradesman'; and that an offer of verse to man or woman who comes simply for 'a book' is invariably rejected; 'they won't even look at it.'