From the States he went to Canada, and thence to Nova Scotia, the Halifax _Morning Herald_ of October 10, 1882, gave an amusing account of an interview held with him by their own “Interviewer.” “The apostle had no lily, nor yet a sunflower. He wore a velvet jacket which seemed to be a good jacket. He had an ordinary necktie and wore a linen collar about number eighteen on a neck half a dozen sizes smaller. His legs were in trousers, and his boots were apparently the product of New York art, judging by their pointed toes. His hair is the colour of straw, slightly leonine, and when not looked after, goes climbing all over his features. Mr. Wilde was communicative and genial; he said he found Canada pleasant, but in answer to a question as to whether European or American women were the more beautiful, he dexterously evaded his querist.” The remainder of the conversation was devoted to poetry; he expressed his opinion that Poe was the greatest American poet, and that Walt Whitman, if not a poet, is a man who sounds a strong note, perhaps neither prose nor poetry, but something of his own that is grand, original and unique. On this topic _The Century_, for November, 1882, contained an exquisitely humorous poem written by Helen Gray Cone, describing an imaginary interview between Oscar Wilde and the great poetical Egotist――Walt Whitman. The style and diction of both are admirably hit off. The parody of Whitman reads, indeed, like an excerpt from his works. Unfortunately, as the poem is very long, only an extract can be given:―― NARCISSUS IN CAMDEN. (“_In the course of his lecture, Mr. Wilde remarked that the most impressive room he had yet entered in America was the one in Camden Town, where he met Walt Whitman. It contained plenty of fresh air and sunlight. On the table was a simple cruse of water._”) _Paumanokides. Narcissus._ _Paumanokides_: Who may this be? This young man clad unusually with loose locks, languorous, glidingly toward me advancing, Toward the ceiling of my chamber his orbic and expressive eyeballs uprolling, As I have seen the green-necked wild fowl, the mallard, in the thunderings of the storm, By the weedy shore of Paumanok my fish-shaped island, Sit down, young man! I do not know you, but I love you with burning intensity, I am he that loves the young men, whosoever and wheresoever they are or may be hereafter, or may have been any time in the past, Loves the eye-glassed literat, loves also and probably more the vendor of clams, raucous-throated, monotonous chanting, Loves the elevated Railroad employée of Manahatta, My city; I suppress the rest of the list of the persons I love, solely because I love you, Sit down, _élève_, I receive you! _Narcissus._