concerning which Mr. G. A. Sala wrote to the Editor (on August 17, 1882.) “I note your book for a proximate ‘Echo.’ I have not read Oscar Wilde’s poems, but in the very sweet stanzas (‘Requiescat’) which you quote, I mark a singular passage:―― “All her bright golden air, Tarnished with rust.” Golden hair (_experto crede_) does _not_ tarnish in the tomb. Read the last paragraph in Zola’s _Nana_, which physiologically, is astoundingly accurate.” Faithfully always, _George Augustus Sala_. The passage relating to the death of _Nana_ runs thus:―― “Et, sur ce masque horrible et grotesque du néant, les cheveux, les beaux cheveux gardant leur flambée de soleil, coulaient en un ruissellement d’or, Vénus se décomposait.” It is also necessary to refer, here to Mr. Wilde’s career in the two other capacities he has assumed of _Art Lecturer_, and _Dress Reformer_. The interest in the Æsthetic School had sometime since spread to the United States, and when the opera of _Patience_ was produced it occurred to Mr. Wilde that a visit to the States to give some lectures, explanatory of _real Æstheticism_ as it exists amongst us, might interest and possibly instruct and elevate our transatlantic cousins. In some of his early utterances he was unguarded; he admitted, for instance, that he was not strongly impressed with the mighty ocean, and great was the flow of wit from this small cause:―― “There’s _Oscar Wilde_, that gifted chylde, Fair Poesie’s anointed, Has, like a brick, the Atlantic Crossed, to be disappointed. Poor Oscar Wilde, æsthetic chylde; The Atlantic ought to know it! A fault so grave to misbehave, And disappoint a poet!” He went to Omaha, where, under the auspices of the Social Art Club, he delivered a lecture on “Decorative Art,” in the course of which he described his impressions of many American houses as being “illy designed, decorated shabbily, and in bad taste, and filled with furniture that was not honestly made, and was out of character.” This statement gave rise to the following verses:―― “What a shame and what a pity, In the streets of London City _Mr. Wilde_ is seen no more. Far from Piccadilly banished, He to Omaha has vanished, Horrid place, which _swells_ ignore. On his back a coat he beareth, Such as Sir John Bennett weareth, Made of velvet――strange array! Legs _Apollo_ might have sighed for, Or great _Hercules_ have died for, His knee breeches now display. Waving sunflower and lily, He calls all the houses “illy” Decorated and designed. For of taste they’ve not a tittle; They may chew and they may whittle; But they are all born colour blind!”