Some circumstances were in his favour.  Though the artistic movement inaugurated years before by the Pre-Raphaelites was still laughed at and scorned by the many as a craze, a few had stood firm, and slowly the steadfast minority had begun to sway the majority as is often the case in democracies.  Oscar Wilde profited by the victory of these art-loving forerunners.  Here and there among the indifferent public, men were attracted by the artistic view of life and women by the emotional intensity of the new creed.  Oscar Wilde became the prophet of an esoteric cult.  But notoriety even did not solve the monetary question, which grew more and more insistent.  A dozen times he waved it aside and went into debt rather than restrain himself.  Somehow or other 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: