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. (In her "Recollections" Miss Terry says that she was more impressed by the genius of Oscar Wilde and of Whistler than by that of any other men.) I reproduce the "Henrietta Maria" sonnet here as a fair specimen of the work: QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA In the lone tent, waiting for victory, She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain, Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain: The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky, War's ruin, and the wreck of chivalry, To her proud soul no common fear can bring: Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King, Her soul aflame with passionate ecstasy. O Hair of Gold! O Crimson Lips! O Face! Made for the luring and the love of man! With thee I do forget the toil and stress, The loveless road that knows no resting-place, Time's straitened pulse, the soul's dread weariness, My freedom and my life republican. Lyric poetry is by its excellence the chief art of England, as music is the art of Germany. A book of poetry is almost sure of fair appreciation in the English press which does not trouble to notice a "Sartor Resartus" or the first essays of an Emerson. The excessive consideration given to Oscar's book by the critics showed that already his personality and social success had affected the reporters. "The Athenaeum" gave the book the place of honour in its number for the 23rd of July. The review was severe; but not unjust. "Mr. Wilde's volume of poems," it says, "may be regarded as the evangel of a new creed. From other gospels it differs in coming after, instead of before, the cult it seeks to establish. . . . . We fail to see, however, that the apostle of the new worship has any distinct message." The critic then took pains to prove that "nearly all the book is imitative" . . . . and concluded: "Work of this nature has no element of endurance." "The Saturday Review "dismissed the book at the end of an article on "Recent Poetry" as "neither good nor bad." The reviewer objected in the English fashion to the sensual tone of the poems; but summed up fairly enough: "This book is not without traces of cleverness, but it is marred everywhere by imitation, insincerity, and bad taste." At the same time the notices in "Punch" were extravagantly bitter, while of course the notices in "The World", mainly written by Oscar's brother, were extravagantly eulogistic. "Punch" declared that "Mr. Wilde may be aesthetic, but he is not original . . . . a volume of echoes. . . . . Swinburne and water."