en another--such simple pictures of humanity at the
age of two, that the farmer could not but be moved to that primary
artistic delight, the recognition of the familiar. Then the farmer would
grow grave, as he always did at any approach to a purchase, however small,
while the poet would rapidly speak of the fitness of the volume as a
present to the old woman: 'Women cared for such things,' he would add
pityingly. Then the farmer would cautiously ask the price, and blow his
cheeks out in surprise on hearing that it was five shillings. He had never
given so much for a book in his life. The poet would then insidiously
suggest that by subscribing before publication he would save a discount.
This would arouse the farmer's instinct for getting things cheap; and so,
finally, with a little more 'playing,' Mr. Timothy Oats, of Clod Hall,
Salop, was landed high and dry on the subscription list--a list, by the
way, which already included all the poet's tradesmen! This is one example
of 'how poets sell.'

Yet over and above what we may term these forced sales, the demand for
verse, we are assured, is growing. The impression to the contrary on the
part of the Philistine is a delusion, a false security. And the demand, a
well-known publisher has told us, is an intelligent one, for poetry of the
markedly idealistic, or markedly realistic, kind; but to writers of the
merely sentimental he can offer no hope. Their golden age, a pretty long
one while it lasted, has probably gone for ever.

This is good news for those engaged in growing dreams for the London
market.

THE 'GENIUS' SUPERSTITION

It must be very painful to the sentimentalist to notice what common sense
is beginning to prevail on one of his pet subjects: that of the ancient
immunities of 'genius.' Of course, to a great many good people genius
continues still to be accepted as payment in full for every species of
obligation, and if a man were a great poet he might probably still ruin a
woman's life, and some, in secret at least, would deem that he did God
service. There are perhaps even more women than ever nowadays who would,
as Keats put it, like to be married to an epic, and given away by a
three-volume novel. Such an attitude, however, is more and more taking its
place among the superstitions, and the divine right of genius to ride
rough-shod over us is at a discount.

At the same time, our national capacity for reaching right conclusions by
the wrong course i