he cult," and so forth?

It seems probable that _The Athenaeum_ mistook Oscar Wilde for a
continuator of the Pre-Raphaelite movement with the sub-conscious and
peculiarly English suggestion that whatever is "aesthetic" or
"artistic" is necessarily weak and worthless, if not worse.

Soon after Oscar left Oxford _Punch_ began to caricature him and
ridicule the cult of what it christened "The Too Utterly Utter." Nine
Englishmen out of ten took delight in the savage contempt poured upon
what was known euphemistically as "the aesthetic craze" by the pet
organ of the English middle class.

This was the sort of thing _Punch_ published under the title of "A
Poet's Day":

"Oscar at Breakfast! Oscar at Luncheon!!
Oscar at Dinner!!! Oscar at Supper!!!!"

"'You see I am, after all, mortal,' remarked the poet, with an
ineffable affable smile, as he looked up from an elegant but
substantial dish of ham and eggs. Passing a long willowy hand through
his waving hair, he swept away a stray curl-paper, with the
nonchalance of a D'Orsay.

"After this effort Mr. Wilde expressed himself as feeling somewhat
faint; and with a half apologetic smile ordered another portion of Ham
and Eggs."

_Punch's_ verses on the subject were of the same sort, showing spite
rather than humour. Under the heading of "Sage Green" (by a fading-out
AEsthete) it published such stuff as this:

My love is as fair as a lily flower.
(_The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!_)
Oh, bright are the blooms in her maiden bower.
(_Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!_)

* * * * *

And woe is me that I never may win;
(_The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!_)
For the Bard's hard up, and she's got no tin.
(_Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!_)

Taking the criticism as a whole it would be useless to deny that there
is an underlying assumption of vicious sensuality in the poet which is
believed to be reflected in the poetry. This is the only way to
explain the condemnation which is much more bitter than the verse
deserves.

The poems gave Oscar pocket money for a season; increased too his
notoriety; but did him little or no good with the judicious: there was
not a memorable word or a new cadence, or a sincere cry in the book.
Still, first volumes of poetry are as a rule imitative and the
attempt, if inferior to "Venus and Adonis," was not without interest.

Oscar was natural