Wordsworth came first; he was young and poor and struggling, and a friend left him just such an independence as I have cried for; and he consecrated himself to art, and he revolutionized English poetry, he breathed truth into a whole nation again. And when he was clear and looked back, he made such statements as these: that “a poet has to _create_ the taste by which he is to be enjoyed,” and that “my poetry has never brought me enough to pay for my shoe-strings.” * * * * * And see how the publishers and critics--how the literary world--received him! How they jeered and jibed, and took fifty years to understand him! Oh think of these things, think what they mean, you who love literature! Think that the world owes its possession of Wordsworth's poetry to the accident that a friend died and left him some money! * * * * * I name Byron; he was a rich man. I name Tennyson; he had a little competence, and he gave up the idea of marriage and for ten years devoted himself to art; and when he was thirty-two he published his work--and then they gave him a pension! * * * * * I name Browning; Browning went his own way, heeding no man; and he never had to think about money. I name Swinburne; and the same was true of him. * * * * * I name Shelley; and Shelley was wealthy. They kept him poor for a time, but his poems do not date from then. When he wrote the poetry that has been the spiritual food of the high souls of this century, he lived in a beautiful villa in Italy, and wandered about the forest with his books. And oh, you who love books, stop just a moment and listen: I am dying, and the cry of all my soul is in this. Tell me, you who love Shelley--the “pardlike spirit, beautiful and swift”--“thyself the wild west wind, oh boy divine!”--tell me how much you think you'd have had of that glorious burst of music--that golden rain of melody, of heavenly ecstasy--if the man who wrote had been a wholesale-paper clerk or a cable-car conductor! How much do you think you'd have had if when he'd torn himself free to write Queen Mab--or even if he'd been ripe enough and written his Prometheus--if he'd had to take them to publishers! If he had had to take them to the critics and the literary world and say, “Here is my work, now set me free that I may help mankind!” * * * * * --And when I wrote that I sank down and burst into tears. It can not be helped. It is very hard for me.-- * * * * * Oh, but come face this thing--you that are responsible! * * * * * --“But who is responsible?” I hear a voice. Every single man is responsible--every single man who has money, who loves letters, and who faces these facts--_you_--YOU--are responsible! * * * * *