us to another of the poet's quarrels
with the world in which he is imprisoned. Should the philanthropist, as
has often been suggested, endow the poet with an independent income?
What a long and glorious tradition would then be broken! From Chaucer's
_Complaint to His Empty Purse_, onward, English poetry has borne
the record of its maker's poverty. The verse of our period is filled
with names from the past that offer our poets a noble precedent for
their destitution,--Homer, Cervantes, Camoeens, Spenser, Dryden, Butler,
Johnson, Otway, Collins, Chatterton, Burns,--all these have their want
exposed in nineteeth and twentieth century verse.

The wary philanthropist, before launching into relief schemes, may well
inquire into the cause of such wretchedness. The obvious answer is, of
course, that instead of earning a livelihood the poet has spent his time
on a vocation that makes no pecuniary return. Poets like to tell us,
also, that their pride, and a fine sense of honour, hold them back from
illegitimate means of acquiring wealth. But tradition has it that there
are other contributing causes. Edmund C. Stedman's _Bohemia_ reveals the
fact that the artist has most impractical ideas about the disposal of
his income. He reasons that, since the more guests he has, the smaller
the cost per person, then if he can only entertain extensively enough,
the cost _per caput_ will be _nil_. Not only so, but the poet is likely
to lose sight completely of tomorrow's needs, once he has a little ready
cash on hand. A few years ago, Philistines derived a good deal of
contemptuous amusement from a poet's statement,

Had I two loaves of bread--ay, ay!
One would I sell and daffodils buy
To feed my soul.
[Footnote: _Beauty_, Theodore Harding Rand.]

What is to be done with such people? Charity officers are continually
asking.

What relief measure can poets themselves suggest? When they are speaking
of older poets, they are apt to offer no constructive criticism, but
only denunciation of society. Their general tone is that of Burns' lines
_Written Under the Portrait of Ferguson:_

Curse on ungrateful man that can be pleased
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure.

Occasionally the imaginary poet who appears in their verse is quite as
bitter. Alexander Smith's hero protests against being "dungeoned in
poverty." One of Richard Gilder's poets warns the public,

You need not weep for and sigh for and saint me
After you'