It is a long time since we thought of England as a ‘precious stone set in the silver sea’ or even since we extolled its good fortunes in the manner of Mr Podsnap. We are more likely nowadays to find ourselves performing an autopsy on it. Since the Great War at least it has become a theme for nostalgia, a good belonging to the past like half-heard music that just carries from some distant room. England is too problematic now to inspire simple patriotism.

A full treatment of ‘Englishness’ would involve many different Englands. Instead, I have chosen to leave some gaps in the story, some of which may cause surprise and require explanation. John Cowper Powys might seem made for my theme and my only excuse for leaving him out is lack of space and my own unfitness to do him justice. I did intend to write more on T. F. Powys, still a too little-known writer, but I found that his way of imagining England, sub specie aeternitatis, fitted in with no one else's. Some readers will miss a fuller account of ‘thirties’ poetry but I preferred to keep my space for less studied writers. Besides, I have to confess that even when I enjoy Auden I have little wish to write about him and critics should keep silent when they can.