And they think that the soul is dead then! And that God has stopped sending into this world new messages and new faiths! Oh you civilization! You society! You critics and lovers of books! Why, that new message and that new faith ought to be the one thing in all this world that you bend your faculties to save! It is that upon which all your life is built--it is that by which this Republic, for one thing, is to be made a factor in the history of mankind. But what do you do? What _have_ you done? Here I am; and come now and tell me what it is that you _think_ you have done. _For I have the message!--I have the faith_! And you have starved me, and you have beaten me, until I am too ill to drag myself about! And what can I do? Where can I turn? What hope have I, except, as Swift's phrase has it, to “die like a poisoned rat in a hole”? I could wish that you would think over that phrase a little while, cultivated ladies and gentlemen. It is not pleasant--to die like a poisoned rat in a hole. * * * * * You ask me to believe in your civilization; you ask me to believe in your love of light! Let me tell you when I would believe in your civilization and your love of light. I say that the last and the highest thing in this world is _Genius_. I say that Religion and Art and Progress and Enlightenment--that all these things are made out of Genius; and that Genius is first and last, highest, and best, and fundamental. And I say that when you recognize that fact--when you believe in Genius--when you prepare the way for it and make smooth the paths for it--I say that then and then alone may you tell me that you are civilized. The thing shrieks against heaven--your cruelty, your stupidity. Since ever the first poet came into this world it has been the same story of agony, indignity, and shame. _And what do you do?_ It is poverty that I talk about, poverty alone! The poet wants nothing in this world but to be let alone to listen to the voices of his soul. He wants nothing from you in all this world but that you give him food while he does it--while he does it, miserable people--not for himself, but for _you_. This is the shame upon you--that you expect--that you always have expected--that the poet, besides doing the fearful task his inspiration lays upon him--that he shall go out into the coarse, ruthless world and slave for his bread! That is the shame! That is the indignity, that is the brutality, the stupidity, the infamy! Shame upon you, shame upon you, world! * * * * * The poet! He comes with a heart trembling with gladness; he comes with tears of rapture in his eyes! He comes with bosom heaving and throat choking and heart breaking. He comes with tenderness and with trust, with joy in the beauty that he beholds. He comes a minstrel, with a harp in his hand--and you set your dogs upon him--you drive him torn and bleeding from your gates! * * * * *