Vainly the stolid _Spectator_, bewildered with fabulous bow-wows, Sick with a surfeit of dog, ran me for all it was worth! Vainly--if I may recur to a metaphor drawn from the ocean, Long (in a figure of speech) tied to the tail of the moon-- Vainly, O excellent organ! with ample and aqueous unction Once, as a rule, in a week, 'cleansing the Earth of her stain'; (Here you will possibly pardon the natural scion of poets, Proud with humility's pride, spoiling a passage from Keats)-- Vainly your voice on the ears of impregnable Laureate-makers, Rang as the sinuous sea rings on a petrified coast; Vainly your voice with a subtle and slightly indelicate largess, Broke on an obdurate world hymning the advent of Me; When from the 'commune of air,' from 'the exquisite fabric of Silence,' I, a superior orb, burst into exquisite print! What shall we say for your greeting, O good horticultural Alfred! Royalty's darling and pride, crown of the Salisbury Press? Now when the negligent Public, in search of a subject for dinner, Asks for the names of your books, Lord! what a boom there will be! Hoarse in Penbryn are the howlings that rise for the hope of the Cymri; Over her Algernon's head Putney composes a dirge; Edwin anathematises politely in various lingos; Davidson ruminates hard over a _Ballad of Hell_; Fondly Le Gallienne fancies how pretty the Delphian laurels Would have appeared on his own hairy and passionate poll; I, imperturbably careless, untainted of jealousy's jaundice, Simply regret the profane contumely done to the Muse; Done to the Muse in the person of Me, her patron, that never Licked Ministerial lips, dusted the boots of the Court! Surely I hear through the noisy and nauseous clamour of Carlton Sobs of the sensitive Nine heave upon Helicon's hump! II. TO MR. WILLIAM WATSON. [On writing the first instalment of _The Purple East_, a 'fine sonnet which it is our privilege to publish.'--_Westminster Gazette_, Dec. 16, 1895.] Dear Mr. Watson, we have heard with wonder, Not all unmingled with a sad regret, That little penny blast of purple thunder, You issued in the _Westminster Gazette_; The Editor describes it as a sonnet; I wish to make a few remarks upon it. _Never, O craven England, nevermore Prate thou of generous effort, righteous aim!_ So ran the lines, and left me very sore, For you may guess my heart was hot with shame: Even thus early in your ample song I felt that something must be really wrong. But when I learned that our ignoble nation Lay sleeping like a log, and lay alone, Propping, according to your information, _Abdul the Damned on his infernal throne_, O then I scattered to the wind my fears, And nearly went and joined the Volunteers.