r he would fall on his feet, he thought. Men who console
themselves in this way usually fall on someone else's feet and so did
Oscar Wilde. At twenty-six years of age and curiously enough at the
very moment of his insolent-bold challenge of the world with
fantastic dress, he stooped to ask his mother for money, money which
she could ill spare, though to do her justice she never wasted a
second thought on money where her affections were concerned, and she
not only loved Oscar but was proud of him. Still she could not give
him much; the difficulty was only postponed; what was to be done?

His vanity had grown with his growth; the dread of defeat was only a
spur to the society favourite; he cast about for some means of
conquering the Philistines, and could think of nothing but his book of
poems. He had been trying off and on for nearly a year to get it
published. The publishers told him roundly that there was no money in
poetry and refused the risk. But the notoriety of his knee-breeches
and silken hose, and above all the continual attacks in the society
papers, came to his aid and his book appeared in the early summer of
1881 with all the importance that imposing form, good paper, broad
margins, and high price (10/6) could give it. The truth was, he paid
for the printing and production of the book himself, and David Bogue,
the publisher, put his name on for a commission.

Oscar had built high fantastic hopes on this book. To the very end of
his life he believed himself a poet and in the creative sense of the
word he was assuredly justified, but he meant it in the singing sense
as well, and there his claim can only be admitted with serious
qualifications. But whether he was a singer or not the hopes founded
on this book were extravagant; he expected to make not only reputation
by it, but a large amount of money, and money is not often made in
England by poetry.

The book had an extraordinary success, greater, it may safely be said,
than any first book of real poetry has ever had in England or indeed
is ever likely to have: four editions were sold in a few weeks. Two of
the Sonnets in the book were addressed to Ellen Terry, one as
"Portia," the other as "Henrietta Maria"; and these partly account for
the book's popularity, for Miss Terry was delighted with them and
praised the book and its author to the skies.[6] I reproduce the
"Henrietta Maria" sonnet here as a fair specimen of the work:

QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA