One of the most ridiculous features of the so-called Æsthetic movement was, that a number of brainless noodles set to work to write poetry in _serious_ imitation of Swinburne, Rossetti, and Oscar Wilde. The style was a mixture of mediæval Italian and middle English, and the one principle which guided the dolorous singers was, “We must not have any meaning, or, at any rate, the less the better.” “My lady” was addressed in all kinds of rhymes, “Love” was held responsible for legions of complicated woes, green eyes, golden eyes――even orbs “like a cat’s splendid circled eye” were quite in fashion. The recipe for this description of poetry was――Begin with an address to your lady; never mind if you have not one, for that is a mere detail. Represent her as bewitching you with the unutterably weary gaze of her eyes――or eyne――“eyne” is preferable; stick in an old word like “teen” or “drouth” or “wot” or “sooth” or “wearyhead” or “wanhope;” break out with “Lo!” and “Yea!” and “Nay!” and “Ah!” at brief intervals, and be sure to have a weird refrain. This humbug held its own for a while, but a few unsparing satirists dealt with this dreary small-fry of art, and the following, one of the most delightful modern jests was prompted by the school:―― MADONNA MIA. I would I were a cigarette Between my lady’s lithe sad lips Where Death, like Love, divinely set, With exquisite sighs and sips, Feeds and is fed and is not fain, And Memory married with Regret, And Pleasure amorous of red Pain, In moon-wise musing wax and wane; That with the bitter sweetness of her breath I might somewhile remember and forget (For Life is Love, and Love is Death!) It was my hap――ah well-a-way―― To burn my little hour away! I would I were a gold jewèl To fleck my lady’s soft lean throat, Where Love, like Death, lies throned to swell A strange and tremulous note Of yearning vague and void and vain, Delight on flame Desire to quell, And Pleasure fearful of red Pain, And dreams fall in to sear and stain; That in the barren blossom of her breath I might be glad we were not one, but twain (For Love is Life, and Life is Death!) And that without me, well-a-way, She could not choose but pass away. This masterly balderdash has imposed on many people; and the most comic thing in the world is to see an earnest person endeavouring to discover hidden meanings in it. ―――― “_John Bull_” (a London newspaper) for November 8, 1879, contained a long article from which only the following brief notes can be quoted:―― IMMORTAL PICTURES. Mr. Rossetti has painted a picture, and in an unguarded moment permitted the _Athenæum_ to describe it in the following language.――[_Extract given in full._]