It is a great advantage, I admit, to have done nothing, but one must not abuse even that advantage.

Who, after all, that I should write of him, is this scribbling anonymuncule in grand old Massachusetts who scrawls and screams so glibly about what he cannot understand?  This apostle of inhospitality, who delights to defile, to desecrate, and to defame the gracious courtesies he is unworthy to enjoy?  Who are these scribes who, passing with purposeless alacrity from the Police News to the Parthenon, and from crime to criticism, sway with such serene incapacity the office which they so lately swept?  ‘Narcissuses of imbecility,’ what should they see in the clear waters of Beauty and in the well undefiled of Truth but the shifting and shadowy image of their own substantial stupidity?  Secure of that oblivion for which they toil so laboriously and, I must acknowledge, with such success, let them peer at us through their telescopes and report what they like of us.  But, my dear Joaquin, should we put them under the microscope there would be really nothing to be seen.

I look forward to passing another delightful evening with you on my return to New York, and I need not tell you that whenever you visit England you will be received with that courtesy with which it is our pleasure to welcome all Americans, and that honour with which it is our privilege to greet all poets.—­Most sincerely and affectionately yours,

Oscar Wilde.

NOTES ON WHISTLER

I.  (World, November 14, 1883.)

From Oscar Wilde, Exeter, to J. M’Neill Whistler, Tite Street.—­Punch too ridiculous—­when you and I are together we never talk about anything except ourselves.

II.  (World, February 25, 1885.)

Dear butterfly,—­By the aid of a biographical dictionary I made the discovery that there were once two painters, called Benjamin West and Paul Delaroche, who rashly lectured upon Art.  As of their works nothing at all remains, I conclude that they explained themselves away.

Be warned in time, James; and remain, as I do, incomprehensible.  To be great is to be misunderstood.—­Tout a vous, Oscar Wilde.

III.  (World, November 24,1886.)

Atlas,—­This is very sad!  With our James vulgarity begins at home, and should be allowed to stay there.—­A vous, Oscar Wilde.

REPLY TO WHISTLER

(Truth, January 9, 1890.)

To the Editor of Truth.

Sir,—­I can hardly imagine that the public is in the very smallest degree interested in the shrill shrieks of ‘Plagiarism’ that proceed from time to time out of the lips of silly vanity or incompetent mediocrity.

However, as Mr. James Whistler has had the impertinence to attack me with both venom and vulgarity in your columns, I hope you will allow me to state that the assertions contained in his letter are as deliberately untrue as they are deliberately offensive.