poet of "literary" epic, however, it is his own consciousness that must
select the kind of theme which will fulfil the epic intention for his
own day; it is his own determination and studious endurance that will
draw the theme into the secrets of his being. If he is not capable of
getting close to his subject, we should not for that reason call his
work "literary" epic. It would put him in the class of Milton, the most
literary of all poets. We must simply call his stuff bad epic. There is
plenty of it. Southey is the great instance. Southey would decide to
write an epic about Spain, or India, or Arabia, or America. Next he
would read up, in several languages, about his proposed subject; that
would take him perhaps a year. Then he would versify as much strange
information as he could remember; that might take a few months. The
result is deadly; and because he was never anywhere near his subject. It
is for the same reason that the unspeakable labours of Blackmore, Glover
and Wilkie, and Voltaire's ridiculous _Henriade_, have gone to pile up
the rubbish-heaps of literature.

So far, supposed differences between "authentic" and "literary" epic
have resolved themselves into little more than signs of development in
epic intention; the change has not been found to produce enough artistic
difference between early and later epic to warrant anything like a
division into two distinct species. The epic, whether "literary" or
"authentic," is a single form of art; but it is a form capable of
adapting itself to the altering requirements of prevalent consciousness.
In addition, however, to differences in general conception, there are
certain mechanical differences which should be just noticed. The first
epics were intended for recitation; the literary epic is meant to be
read. It is more difficult to keep the attention of hearers than of
readers. This in itself would be enough to rule out themes remote from
common experience, supposing any such were to suggest themselves to the