Why Is It That Poetry Has Never Yet Been Subjected To That Process Of Dilution Which Has Proved So Advantageous To Her Sister-Art Music? The Diluter Gives Us First A Few Notes Of Some Well-Known Air, Then A Dozen Bars Of His Own, Then A Few More Notes Of The Air, And So On Alternately: Thus Saving The Listener, If Not From All Risk Of Recognising The Melody At All, At Least From The Too-Exciting Transports Which It Might Produce In A More Concentrated Form. The Process Is Termed "Setting" By Composers, And Any One, That Has Ever Experienced The Emotion Of Being Unexpectedly Set Down In A Heap Of Mortar, Will Recognise The Truthfulness Of This Happy Phrase. For Truly, Just As The Genuine Epicure Lingers Lovingly Over A Morsel Of Supreme Venison, Whose Every Fibre Seems To Murmur "Excelsior!", Yet Swallows, Ere Returning To The Toothsome Dainty, Great Mouthfuls Of Oatmeal-Porridge And Winkles: And Just As The Perfect Connoisseur In Claret Permits Himself But One Delicate Sip, And Then Tosses Off A Pint Or More Of Boarding-School Beer: So Also, I Never Loved A Dear Gazelle, Nor Anything That Cost Me Much: High Prices Profit Those Who Sell, But Why Should I Be Fond Of Such? To Glad Me With His Soft Black Eye My Son Comes Trotting Home From School; He's Had A Fight But Can't Tell Why, He Always Was A Little Fool! But, When He Came To Know Me Well, He Kicked Me Out, Her Testy Sire: And When I Stained My Hair, That Belle Might Note The Change, And Thus Admire And Love Me, It Was Sure To Dye A Muddy Green Or Staring Blue: Whilst One Might Trace, With Half An Eye, The Still Triumphant Carrot Through.