When criticism becomes in England a real art, as it should be, and when none but those of artistic instinct and artistic cultivation is allowed to write about works of art, artists will, no doubt, read criticisms with a certain amount of intellectual interest.  As things are at present, the criticisms of ordinary newspapers are of no interest whatsoever, except in so far as they display, in its crudest form, the Boeotianism of a country that has produced some Athenians, and in which some Athenians have come to dwell.—­I am, Sir, your obedient servant,

Oscar Wilde. 
February 26.

SALOME

(Times, March 2, 1893.)

To the Editor of the Times.

Sir,—­My attention has been drawn to a review of Salome which was published in your columns last week. {170} The opinions of English critics on a French work of mine have, of course, little, if any, interest for me.  I write simply to ask you to allow me to correct a misstatement that appears in the review in question.

The fact that the greatest tragic actress of any stage now living saw in my play such beauty that she was anxious to produce it, to take herself the part of the heroine, to lend to the entire poem the glamour of her personality, and to my prose the music of her flute-like voice—­this was naturally, and always will be, a source of pride and pleasure to me, and I look forward with delight to seeing Mme. Bernhardt present my play in Paris, that vivid centre of art, where religious dramas are often performed.  But my play was in no sense of the words written for this great actress.  I have never written a play for any actor or actress, nor shall I ever do so.  Such work is for the artisan in literature—­not for the artist.—­I remain, Sir, your obedient servant,

Oscar Wilde.

THE THIRTEEN CLUB

(Times, January 16, 1894.)

At a dinner of the Thirteen Club held at the Holborn Restaurant on January 13, 1894, the Chairman (Mr. Harry Furniss) announced that from Mr. Oscar Wilde the following letter had been received:—­

I have to thank the members of your Club for their kind invitation, for which convey to them, I beg you, my sincere thanks.  But I love superstitions.  They are the colour element of thought and imagination.  They are the opponents of common sense.  Common sense is the enemy of romance.  The aim of your Society seems to be dreadful.  Leave us some unreality.  Do not make us too offensively sane.  I love dining out, but with a Society with so wicked an object as yours I cannot dine.  I regret it.  I am sure you will all be charming, but I could not come, though 13 is a lucky number.

THE ETHICS OF JOURNALISM

I.