There was, I felt, quite a swing about that first stanza--a joyous and rollicking note of comradeship. The second was slightly hysterical perhaps. But I liked the third: it was so bracingly unorthodox, even according to the tenets of Soames’ peculiar sect in the faith. Not much ‘trusting and encouraging’ here! Soames triumphantly exposing the Devil as a liar, and laughing ‘full shrill,’ cut a quite heartening figure, I thought--then! Now, in the light of what befell, none of his poems depresses me so much as ‘Nocturne.’ I looked out for what the metropolitan reviewers would have to say. They seemed to fall into two classes: those who had little to say and those who had nothing. The second class was the larger, and the words of the first were cold; insomuch that Strikes a note of modernity throughout.... These tripping numbers.--Preston Telegraph was the only lure offered in advertisements by Soames’ publisher. I had hopes that when next I met the poet I could congratulate him on having made a stir; for I fancied he was not so sure of his intrinsic greatness as he seemed. I was but able to say, rather coarsely, when next I did see him, that I hoped ‘Fungoids’ was ‘selling splendidly.’ He looked at me across his glass of absinthe and asked if I had bought a copy. His publisher had told him that three had been sold. I laughed, as at a jest. ‘You don’t suppose I CARE, do you?’ he said, with something like a snarl. I disclaimed the notion. He added that he was not a tradesman. I said mildly that I wasn’t, either, and murmured that an artist who gave truly new and great things to the world had always to wait long for recognition. He said he cared not a sou for recognition. I agreed that the act of creation was its own reward. His moroseness might have alienated me if I had regarded myself as a nobody. But ah! hadn’t both John Lane and Aubrey Beardsley suggested that I should write an essay for the great new venture that was afoot--‘The Yellow Book’? And hadn’t Henry Harland, as editor, accepted my essay? And wasn’t it to be in the very first number? At Oxford I was still in statu pupillari. In London I regarded myself as very much indeed a graduate now--one whom no Soames could ruffle. Partly to show off, partly in sheer good-will, I told Soames he ought to contribute to ‘The Yellow Book.’ He uttered from the throat a sound of scorn for that publication. Nevertheless, I did, a day or two later, tentatively ask Harland if he knew anything of the work of a man called Enoch Soames. Harland paused in the midst of his characteristic stride around the room, threw up his hands towards the ceiling, and groaned aloud: he had often met ‘that absurd creature’ in Paris, and this very morning had received some poems in manuscript from him. ‘Has he NO talent?’ I asked.