It may here be said that Mr. Rodd's first impressions were somewhat different from what the above implies. In a letter dated October 6, 1882, he wrote the American publisher:
"I had not till lately seen the little edition,—which is charming. I have seen no édition de luxe in England to compare with it.... I have to thank you for the great care and delicacy with which this little book has been published."
What undoubtedly precipitated the trouble was not the format, "amazing" though it may have seemed to the nameless scribe of the Tribune, but the proposal by the Stoddart firm to bring out an English edition. This could not be done, as Mr. Rodd pointed out, because the poems had already been published in London, and as he held the copyright, they could not be reissued save with his consent. Furthermore: "Since I have read the introduction I am not over pleased at the way in which I find myself identified with much that I have no sympathy with." Last of all, probably first of all, "there is one thing in it that has annoyed me excessively, and had I had a proof I should not have allowed it to stand. The dedication is too effusive. I have written to Mr. Wilde on this score, but if he does not write to you, I must ask you as a personal favour to see to it. I want to have it removed from all copies that go out for the future."
Unfortunately Mr. Rodd's request could not well be complied with: the book had been published, and as it turned out no other edition was ever called for by a more or less undiscerning public.
A few other facts are in evidence. The original title of the work as published by Rodd through David Bogue, London, 1881, was Songs in the South and the dedication read "To My Father." It is conjectured that the dedication in the American edition was either based on, or copied from an inscription written by the author in the copy Wilde brought over with him. It read as follows: To Oscar Wilde—/ "Hearts Brother"—/ These few songs and many songs to come." It may have been "too effusive." It is seldom, indeed, that we have the time and the place and the loved one all together! It is not denied that this inscription was written by Mr. Rodd, however effusive, and somehow, after the lapse of years one wishes he had not so completely discountenanced the kindly offices of one who later on fell into such desperate extremes. It is quite likely that the evident editing bestowed upon the poems by Wilde may have added to the displeasure of the poet. If so, we cannot, after an acquaintance with the original London text of 1881 agree with him. Two poems, "Lucciole" and "Maidenhair," omitted by Wilde attest to his critical acumen, and nine additional poems derived, we may suppose from manuscript sources, do not lessen our respect for his supervising care.
The introduction itself was without question a matter of the greatest regret to Mr. Rodd. It credited him "with much that annoys me excessively." It is conceded however, that "it has been kindly meant"—but if a second edition should be in request—it must be "with no introduction"—there were available other poems that could be made to take its place.
Admitting that Wilde went beyond the spirit, if not the letter of his friend's intent, it is a relief to find Rodd's admission that "where a thing has been kindly meant, one cannot find fault.—On reflection I see how foolish it was to make no reservations and restrictions of any kind—For that very reason I have no excuse to make any complaint." But still harping on the supposedly bad effects of Wilde's L'Envoi: "It did not occur to me at the time that I should be so completely identified with a lot of opinions with which I have no sympathy whatever." With this disclaimer our quotations from the Rodd letters come to an end.
Well, after all is said what does it matter? The thing we care for most is just this brief, brilliant essay; as for the verse it is in the main well and good, despite benefits forgot. Some of it we feel assured will survive, has indeed, lived to find its way into many anthologies. As for the exquisite little causerie it remains to us safe and secure, veritable treasure-trove of unsullied gold against the years that the locust hath eaten.
T.B.M.