But no matter how heroic the poet may prove himself to be, in his character of soldier, or how efficient as a man of affairs, this does not settle his quarrel with the utilitarians, for they are not to be pacified by a recital of the poet's avocations. They would remind him that the world claims the whole of his time. If, after a day of strenuous activity, he hurries home with the pleasant conviction that he has earned a long evening in which to woo the Muse, the world is too likely to peer through the shutters and exclaim, "What? Not in bed yet? Then come out and do some extra chores." If the poet is to prove his title as an efficient citizen, it is clear that he must reveal some merit in verse-making itself. If he can make no more ambitious claims for himself, he must, at the very least, show that Browning was not at fault when he excused his occupation: I said, to do little is bad; to do nothing is worse, And wrote verse. [Footnote: Ferishtah's Fancies.] How can the poet satisfy the philistine world that his songs are worth while? Need we ask? Business men will vouch for their utility, if he will but conform to business men's ideas of art. Here is a typical expression of their views, couched in verse for the singer's better comprehension: The days of long-haired poets now are o'er, The short-haired poet seems to have the floor; For now the world no more attends to rhymes That do not catch the spirit of the times. The short-haired poet has no muse or chief, He sings of corn. He eulogizes beef. [Footnote: "The Short-haired Poet," in _Common-Sense_, by E. F. Ware.] But the poet utterly repudiates such a view of himself as this, for he cannot draw his breath in the commercial world. [Footnote: Several poems lately have voiced the poet's horror of materialism. See Josephine Preston Peabody, _The Singing Man_; Richard Le Gallienne, _To R. W. Emerson, Richard Watson Gilder_; Mary Robinson, _Art and Life_.] In vain he assures his would-be friends that the intangibilities with which he deals have a value of their own. Emerson says, One harvest from thy field Homeward brought the oxen strong; A second crop thine acres yield Which I gather in a song. [Footnote: _Apology_] But for this second crop the practical man says he can find absolutely no market; hence overtures of friendliness between him and the poet end with sneers and contempt on both sides. Doubtless the best way for the poet to deal with the perennial complaints of the practical-minded, is simply to state brazenly, as did Oscar Wilde, "All art is quite useless." [Footnote: Preface to _Dorian Gray_.]